2013-05-24T19:01:26-04:00 Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=sandra-charron Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Sandra Charron Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3189273 2013-05-02T11:37:35-04:00 2013-05-02T11:48:02-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ a post expounding upon my faith and the reasons I was often reluctant to share it with those who I knew were non-believers. Several key words in my article, such as Christianity and Jesus, triggered such a backlash from many atheists that the rocks flung at me have left dents and bruises. Not only was I shocked at the cries of indignation bellowed from one camp to the other, but I was sad to see that my confession was used as a means to further fuel the fire of controversy, rather than foster tolerance and respect from parties of different ideologies.

More interestingly, however, was the fact that so many atheists were quick to read something where the title clearly stated that the content would serve to glorify God, and would certainly not be rebuking Jesus Christ. I understand that everyone has an opinion, but it was eye opening for me that those of such different beliefs took time from their lives to read about something which clearly would not exalt anything but the God I pray to.

Christians also troll sites where atheism is the main topic, and leave their own opinions in a less than gracious manner. But thing is, since I, as a Christian, have no interest in reading how and why an atheist is an atheist, I don't Google and I'm not drawn to the title of an article that would have for its discussion a point which goes against the very ideology which defines me as a human.

I thought perhaps the reactions to my post were due to the nature of my writing; the way in which I had phrased my thoughts; the naivety with which I had delved into such a touchy subject. Or maybe the title itself -- "Why Am I So Scared to Admit I'm Christian" -- was too vague and opened up the possibility of derogatory propaganda aimed at Christianity, in which case, yes, I get it: non-believers would be curious to witness the assault.

But turns out that this is common practice in this world of public opinion -- that to speak a viewpoint, to share a defining characteristic which is different than someone else's, to say "I am a Christian" or "I don't believe in God," means "open season" on the person who dares proclaim a belief.

As a Christian, I am drawn to the words of the Bible. In this world of social media, I happily "like" posts in which Scripture is quoted. I'm all over Instagram, "liking" this inspiring picture and that lovely uplifting quote. But as I scroll through the names and comments of the others who I stupidly believe will share my enthusiasm for God, I am instead surprised by those who disagree. And of course, in this world where anonymity encourages boldness, the disagreement manifests as a sandstorm where everyone is blinded by the dust, and nobody achieves their purpose.

This is not a post about Christians vs. atheists. I have children, and not all of them share my view. I can sit at the kitchen table with my oldest child, and have a discussion which is never complete. At no point does either of us tell the other he/she is right. But the discussion itself, the human interaction has for its purpose to unite us.

In this world where we seek to connect, to latch on to others in order to form a lasting bond despite the miles separating us -- why is it that the topic of faith or non-faith causes such a tidal wave of discontent and aggression.

Of course wars have been raged for millennia over this topic, but why are we unable to overcome the adversity and accept the differences? This is Canada. There is no shrapnel on our roads. So why is the declaration of an identity, whatever it may be, so frightful? If I tell you I only wear pink, the backlash will not cause a series of back-and-forth insults which leave one or more questioning our humanity. But if I say that I worship Christ the Lord, or that I don't believe in God at all, the retaliation is awe-inspiring.

The energy and ardor we see flung with feverish force at the sight of certain key words would be far more beneficial if harnessed and used to rid the world of its eternal anger and insults.

Possible? Probably not now.

Powerful? Always.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3096430 2013-04-18T08:26:00-04:00 2013-04-18T08:27:02-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ my tired refrain about the Internet feeding into an unhealthy need for self-glorification.

Observing my daughter as she clutches her iPod in anticipation of the inevitable endorsements of her latest uploaded picture on Instagram from friends as well as strangers, worry consumes me, as I wonder if today's children will be more or less charitable than past generations.

Will our children raise money for homeless shelters? Will our kids continue to look for ways to reduce world hunger? Will selfishness pervade their pores like ingrown hairs? Or will their universal connectedness harness a deeper desire to serve and help others?

The answers remain to be seen, but my wonder and worry about the self-absorption of today's youth did force me to make an executive decision in my home. Despite my own love of any medium which allows me to "pin," "like," tweet, or type a hashtag, life does not need to be complicated by the intricacies and subtle nuances that social media weaves into our lives...Or so I thought.

Amidst the protests of my family members, and the realization that my kids can and would probably outsmart me when it came to technology, I deactivated all of my social media accounts and our Internet, consequently cutting myself and my family off entirely from the tweets and comments of not only Internet strangers but also several terrific online friendships.

The subsequent withdrawal caused my pacing to wear a pattern on my floors and left me wondering what I was accomplishing. Finally, a few days ago -- although ashamed of my lack of will power and hesitant to jump back into a world I felt was far too consuming -- I did reconnect to the Internet.

As I reactivated each account, I continued to doubt this decision, and hovered my mouse over the 'log out' buttons, convinced there was nothing good to be found and certain my voyeurism would not bring fulfilment.

Instead, I was certain my desire to see into other people's lives -- to view their pictures, captions, comments, and blogs -- would cause my ability to see the world I live in as a series of generic clips and slogans, as opposed to an open, infinite window of connectedness.

Then last night, as I did my usual round of social media hopping, my fingers stopped in their tracks as I put pieces together and realized with a bubble of sickness what had happened in Boston a few hours earlier; the horrific actions which left too many in shreds of fear, agony, despair, and grief.

Again.

Again our world is being shaken and stirred by faceless, nameless tyrants, and we are left questioning the goodness of humanity. However, as I perused the Internet further, although my sadness and confusion were more consuming with each new detail discovered, my attention was drawn to the volume of prayers and wishes sent out by the world.

The harshness of the scenes depicted in pictures and articles were, instead, caressed and stroked by the tender words of people determined to acknowledge not only the evil in the world, but more importantly, those who were affected. Victims. Heroes. Defenders. Defenceless. All represented in the eyes of the world wide web in myriad captions, comments, pictures, and paintings.

Tweets which usually focused on humour, deliberately mentioned the people of Boston; not wanting to sully the memories of the deceased and injured by jesting about reality TV nonsense. Facebook was flooded with pictures, images, words, all meant to display both grief and hope.

The world does not ignore the tragedy, but as I hopped from one site to the next, my heart pounded in my ears as I realized for the first time the universality of love for one another.

Of course the evil is apparent, and that is what the evil-doers want us to see and believe. But united through the veil of one moment in time, social media displays the true essence of humanity.

The events in Boston are awful. Each and every person affected will be forever changed. Words cannot do them justice. But thankfully, there is a world of people who will try.

WARNING: Some of the photos and videos from the scene may be graphic and disturbing.


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Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
My daughter has been to two concerts in her young life: Justin Bieber and Rihanna. The first was a few months ago where she wept openly at the sight of the young heartthrob singing and bopping around the stage; his shout-outs to the audience was enthusiastic, encouraging, clean, and appropriate.

Say what you will about the kid, but he doesn't feel it necessary to scream vulgarities into his mic while he's on a stage. Not sure what he does when he's being pursued by the paparazzi, but don't care 'cause I didn't pay lots of money for my daughter and I to witness that.

But when we attended the Rihanna concert in Winnipeg on Monday, March 25, within a few minutes, the popular singer's jaw-dropping profanity had me looking around to see if perhaps I had been wrong to assume that this performer was appropriate for young adolescents.

I don't know too much about her, except that I've been listening to her top hits on the radio for a few years. Her songs are catchy. She has a pretty smile. There would be no harm in taking my teenager to one of her concerts, right? Wrong.

I need to take accountability for the fact that I have never bothered to buy a Rihanna CD, and/or listened to more of her music than the songs played on the radio. If I'd done this, I would have known that behind softer lyrics lurk an edgier side to her.

What I certainly didn't expect though, after submitting myself and my daughter to 45 minutes of the warm-up act, A$AP Rocky -- who specializes in songs where he calls the world and everyone in it a 'MOFO'-- was that Rihanna would come out, thank us all for waiting for her appearance despite the fact that her show was delayed by 90 minutes, then blame the delay on Canada Customs for searching her buses when they were crossing the border. She wanted us to join into her disappointment at her late arrival by shouting out: "Fuck customs!"

Hmmmm...nope. Not gonna happen, sweetheart.

LOOK: Other stars who've had trouble with the law
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You're an internationally renowned popstar. You have a very large entourage and crew. Your staff is travelling across borders in buses onto which you could store pretty much anything. Oh. And wait. Last week on March 20, your buses got stopped at the Windsor/ Detroit border where one of your employees was in possession of drugs.

So. Umm. Yeah. Our customs officials kind of have an obligation to take these matters seriously so they were doing their job when they stopped the buses.

As the daughter of a customs official, I've heard the stories of what these employees have to put up with. Nobody likes crossing the border, but guess what? The officials with their stern looks and their questions about what we're bringing across and why we're bringing it, do not later congregate in the break room chuckling about the family of four whose six suitcases they ransacked. It's their job. It's a stressful job because if anything or anyone does get across that shouldn't, the repercussions can be tragic.

So maybe Rihanna was put out because her tour buses got stopped for a second time at a Canadian border, but the onus of responsibility is on her shoulders to ensure that her staff is smart enough to ditch their stash before going through customs.

Canadians may have a reputation for being polite and politically correct, but we aren't stupid. If you're going to smoke a joint while you're at the border, we have noses. We can smell it. So don't stand on a stage all high and mighty and ask us, Canadian citizens, to shout obscenities at our customs officials. And don't do it when my kid is sitting right next to me.

Please and thank you.



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Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ Big Brother was coming to Canada, I immediately began mentally creating my audition tape. What better TV than a mother of four trapped in a house with 14 other people...OK, so not a huge stretch from the life I currently live if you throw in my husband, the kids, their friends, my relatives; easily more than 15 people.

But then my children burst my bubble by pointing out, "Mom, you'd be the first one evicted." What? Why?

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1. Well, for one, I don't think I'd have the energy for all the game playing and the strategy. One look at that backyard with the pool, the weights, and the cardio machines, and I'd be like, "Well alright!" ~Cut to every scene of me on the elliptical telling any Houseguest approaching for game talk: "Can you come back in a minute? Mommy's needs a moment."~

2. Unlike some of the older houseguests on the U.S. version of Big Brother who took over the role of the parent figure in the house, and subsequently prepared the meals, cleaned the bathroom, and took out the trash, I would be walking over other people's garbage before I'd be bending over to pick it up...Yo peeps! My own kids clean up after themselves; you think I'm here to be your momma?

3. The "Have/Have Not" scenarios would not bother me one bit. Being on slop would be like dieting for a week (I've been on the cabbage soup diet; I can handle the digestive dysfunction created by slop). As for the sleeping arrangements in the "Have Not" room, well, I've been camping in a two-man tent with four toddlers for a week. Not to mention, as a mother, it is not unusual to wake up in the dark of night to a frantic child by my bedside crying, "I just puked all over the bathroom floor." Sleeping in the cot in the "Have Not" room, where I'm guaranteed a semi-full night of sleep is not considered being deprived. In my world, it's called a vacay.

4. My habit of saying, "Can I be honest with you?" followed by, "You're being a hypocrite," would probably not go over well in a house filled with people who have proven over and over again by their indignation at finding out that someone they have backstabbed has in turned backstabbed them.

5. If I was the winner of the "Have/Have Not" competition, there would be no chips left in the storage room. Because I would have eaten them. Because I would justify my chip binging by pointing out all the working out I've been doing since coming to the house and all the weight I lost during the week I was on slop. Sorry Houseguests, momma loves her some sweet spicy chili Doritos.

6. One look at the hot tub, where the "couples" make out, and I'd be repeating into the mic around my neck, "Big Brother! Big Brother! Can we get this thing disinfected please? It's a cesspool of bacteria." If the Houseguests didn't vote me out, after being badgered by me over and over again, the producers of Big Brother would finesse a "twist" in which I was evicted, regardless of whether I was on the block or not.

7. And speaking of the couples, I would be a) counselling some (Alec and Topaz), b) encouraging others to break up (Tom and Liza), and c) ingratiating myself in order to be the matron of honour at their wedding (Emmett and Jillian).

8. The Houseguests would constantly be making fun of me behind my back, and plotting my exit because they'd be sick of hearing me ask them, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" (Have you heard the potty mouth on these Houseguests?)

9. When one of the girls (Liza!) would proudly declare, "I'm voting the way Tom is," I'd be all, "Oh no no no no honey...honey honey honey! Let's have a little talk about something called self-respect." And while we're on the topic of self-respect, I'd probably have pulled Talla from her lap dance by her ear.

10. I'd get thrown out of the Big Brother house for inappropriate behaviour...there's no way I could last for more than a day without punching Tom in the face....And then my kids would see it, and what kind of an example would that be...speaking of self-respect and all.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2861208 2013-03-13T08:13:26-04:00 2013-05-13T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
I can't wait for the day when I can relate to these words as opposed to longing for that perfect body and that flawless image.

I went from three years of competitive body building in a bikini division, where what I looked like controlled my every movement, and what I was, was a self-absorbed woman who constantly analyzed her body, deciding what needed to be done next in order to win the top national title, get sponsors, and appear on that coveted Oxygen magazine cover. Finally, one day when I was comforting my daughter who was having her first episode of teenage angst, as she was crying in my arms, I was mentally counting how much time this adolescent break-down would cost me in the gym. It was at that moment that I realized the depth of my obsession, not only with my body and my looks, but with my attempts to stop the clock.

Now I'm in a career that has me working 12-hour shifts, running off my feet to tend to the needs of my patients; working a pattern of days and nights, all of which are not at all conducive to my previous regimen of weight lifting, cardio, and healthy eating. On my infrequent days off, instead of sprinting on the treadmill for 45 minutes a day, I am spending that time lounging on my couch, watching daytime TV, and quite literally eating bonbons.

I try to accept that this is real life. This is what working women with families endure. There is very little leisure time; more to the point, a chiseled body and the necessary accoutrements that go with it like sleek shiny hair, manicured nails, and glowing skin are not impossible to achieve, but in my lived experience, the woman who achieves these is most likely lacking in a few other aspects of her life.

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I understand what Susan Sarandon means by the above quote, and wouldn't it be wonderful to be that person who is so complete within herself and her worth as a human being that the feminine archetype which requires a much more self-absorbed mindset, more than 24 hours in the day, and the stopping of time -- that person that Susan is describing pays no attention to the stream of advertisements promoting the secrets that will stop the hands of time and the loosening skin beneath the chin, which was crudely referred to as a "waddle" in Ally McBeal.

But as I sit on my bed typing this on my laptop, as my gaze travels to the mirror, I startle at the sight of the woman staring back at me. I've come off three nightshifts. I haven't combed my hair or even applied chapstick to my dry, cracking lips. My own "waddle" reminds me that I am in my 40s. And as opposed to embracing this moment in time when I've accomplished many of my dreams; I'm raising four glorious human beings; I've become the nurse I always said I would be; I am smart and skilled; all I notice is my own "waddle," laughing at me, screaming that 40 is not the new 20. Who said this and why? Why can't I just be 44 and be okay with that? Why did we decide to round 40 down to 20?

Of course this is entirely my issue, my own haunting demons which darken my thoughts and prevent me from seeing the bigger picture, from accepting and embracing who I am as THIS woman, as opposed to wishing I was THAT one -- that one who looks like Jennifer Aniston, with perfectly coiffed hair and pouty painted lips. Instead of the one who is fixated on the stubborn grey roots that the box of L'Oreal can barely cover. Undereye concealer excites me and anti-ageing serums tease me, and despite my secret desire to let my armpit hair grow long and bushy, to be that woman who is OK with who she is because she is fabulous in her own right, I ask my friends to repeat the name of that product that they use that helped to diminish those fine lines.

I know women who tell me they don't care what they look like. They are fine with who they are and they embrace their age, proud of where they've been and where they are going. And as I listen to them, that voice in my head quietly questions the authenticity of what they're saying, because entire ad campaigns and television promote the opposite. They show women transforming themselves via make-overs, bootcamps, and surgery to become the feminine ideal.

I am on a journey of self-discovery, to love who I am the way I am: dark bags under my eyes and all. But if I'm honest, and I am, this is going to take a long time, and call me shallow all you want, I've been brainwashed by decades of women succumbing to this idealism. And if Susan Sarandon's words are true, and "what you are is the point," maybe being what you are is indeed a complex mixture of narcissism and truth.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2826083 2013-03-07T17:24:19-05:00 2013-05-07T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ Survivor, Amazing Race, American Idol, etcetera, etcetera with hands clasped, eyes locked on the opening theme songs in excitement for all of the edited drama. So when I heard that Big Brother was coming to Canada, after accepting that I couldn't pull off booty shorts and a sports bra on national TV alongside the 20-somethings, I resigned myself to the fact that I would be the show's biggest fan.

When the first episode introduced the Houseguests/contestants, or what I like to refer to as a societal microcosm, I noticed but was not deterred from my eagerness to witness the "showmances," "bromances," and frenemies entangled in torrid, two-faced action, that not only were several Canadian provinces not represented, but the province of Nova Scotia, the population of which is half that of the city of Toronto, could boast TWO contestants in the lavishly furnished Big Brother house. Fortunately for the show, I'm that much of a fan that the exemption of any Manitobans did not dampen my spirits as I awaited the twists and turns cleverly created, and often scripted, by the Big Brother producers.

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What I didn't expect, however, was the ensuing vulgarity, as contestants "eff-ed this" and "eff-ed that," without so much as a hiccup to cover their expletives. I certainly can't sit here in complete judgement since my husband has pointed out to me on numerous occasions that I'd make a soldier blush with some of my own language, but after watching the American version of Big Brother with my daughter for several summers, not only have I noticed that our Canadian cast is far more fond of potty mouth (which is not always bleeped out on Slice), but shock value abounds in the "Diary Room," as contestants pour their hearts out to the Canadian folks about what is going on in lock-down and how they feel about it; using memorable little catch-phrases such as "sweating like a whore in church."

Now normally I'd spit out my drink through my nostrils at something like that, but in the context of a TV show that I've become familiar with via the American counterpart, the unexpectedness of the Canadian contestants' outbursts, and their willingness to tell the camera that the current strategy in play is bull...well...doodoo, the present continual use of profanity has me questioning my continued devotion.

There are great minds in this cast of Big Brother, and a game that has 15 people vying for $100,000 by daring them to put up with each other for three months certainly could push the most serene of people to shout out the name of bodily fluids with conviction. But in the U.S., they don't. And I like that. Of course I understand that once in a while, in the heat of a fight over meal preparation, tempers may flare in the Big Brother house. But in the U.S., where, might I add Honey Booboo is a household name and angry dance moms have their own TV show, ironically there seems to be a bit more class in the Big Brother house.

After asking the contestants in my TV several times, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" I'm now wondering why Canada feels it necessary to amp up its version of the show in this manner. Is it reflective of the underlying current of hostility in our country masked by our polite "please" and "thank yous"? Do we think that having the girls on the show wear skimpy outfits for all of the challenges and prompting everyone to cuss each other out in front of the nation will draw more attention via shock-value? Whatever the rationale is for allowing and perhaps even encouraging contestants to drop the F-bomb more times than Gretzky has scored, the outcome is that the players, their strategic qualities, and their respective personalities as representatives of Canada is being hidden beneath a veil of blatant unnecessary vulgarity.

And it's too bad, because some of these contestants, such as Gary Levy who was born for the spotlight, could not only be forces to be reckoned with in the Big Brother household, but could also go on to become memorable and respectable Canadian activists for whatever causes they chose post-Big Brother. Unfortunately, with their current depiction, I'm not certain I'd be proud to call some of these people MY people.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2802997 2013-03-04T12:42:16-05:00 2013-05-04T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
I'm not sure how much the other team was getting away with since they were nine-year-olds and the refs were barely past the stage of growing armpit hair so I doubt their objective was to plot the outcome of these minor hockey playoffs. But as the coach stormed out of the building to cool off in the parking lot, I looked over at the bench from whence he had come, and noticed the little faces of his players looking sadly at the door where he had left. I quickly hissed in my husband's ear, "Way to teach those kids accountability!"

When my son came out of the dressing room, his first words were, "We lost because the refs weren't calling any penalties on the other team." My husband stopped in his tracks, turned to face our little forlorn, sore loser, and said, "No. You lost because you guys stopped skating in the second period."

Despite what I had been hypocritically quick to point out about the coach, had it not been for my husband's enlightening words, I can't say that I would have taken the same approach. In a world where we give kids trophies and medals just for being a part of a sport, but not because they actually won the championship; in a time when schools make up awards such as "Most willing to hold the door open for the other students after recess" so that no student is left empty handed at the school's yearly ceremonies -- kids are not taught to lose graciously or to take accountability.

I know parents who let their children win when playing board games because, in their words, "They have plenty of time to learn in life that you don't always win." Really? Because there isn't that much time. Admittedly it was cute to see my little nine-year-old with a postgame lip-on, but it's not so cute when the child is taller than a bar stool. And although I was never one to let my kids win at tic-tac-toe, I have been known to appease the sight of a sad face from a bad grade on an English essay by blaming "the stupid assignment," not the lack of effort my child put into his/her work.

I take full accountability for the fact that my kids are hardly ever...nay...are NEVER able to take accountability for their failures, because I've cajoled them into believing that said failures were not their fault. And yet, I will happily take accountability for my actions in doing so, in an effort, to yet again, shield them from life: it's not their fault they don't take accountability. It's mine.

It's a vicious cycle that I have perpetuated in an effort to protect them from hurt feelings, and yet, there is so much power in owning your mistakes. As adults, apologizing for bad behaviour, admitting to an error made in the workplace, and overall honesty in all aspects of life has others describing us as authentic, real, dependable, and trustworthy. Making mistakes is OK when we admit to them.

So why are we so afraid to allow our children to fail? Why can't there be just one kid who wrote the best story in the class? Why do they all have to be rewarded in a competition where there is only one winner? Why do the schools invent titles to type into glossy, white certificates which will be handed out to every single student so that the parents can hang them onto their walls, and repeat over and over with pride, "You had the cleanest locker!"

Not every parent is this way. On the way home from the arena, while my boy pouted, my husband, clowning around for the sake of our distraught little hockey player, sang along to the tune of a song on the radio, "You did not lose because of the refs...You lost because you didn't work hard enough!" And our son may still have been sad, but beneath his frown was the glimmer of a smile...Because God forbid, we not do all that we could to ensure that his sadness was short lived.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2760519 2013-02-26T12:20:22-05:00 2013-04-28T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
"I would never do that," we would say, sipping our coffee on our front porches as our children ran in circles in our fenced backyards. "Imagine if our children were away from us every single day, being watched by strangers." We'd nod in agreement as our little darlings who, by the third hour, were now tear-stained and snotty from the in-fighting occurring among the three-year-olds vying for the same plastic pail.

From my working friends, I would hear the counter argument: that having their children in daycare made the kids more sociable, intellectually advanced, and more receptive to kindergarten. "Kids that stay at home all day don't get the same kind of stimulation," they would say, and they would back it up with examples of their friend's two-year-old who sat in front of the TV all day while the mother surfed the Internet.

This is not an essay about working versus stay-at-home mothers. That topic has been beaten over the head with an anvil, and according to both camps still huffing and puffing as each one tries to shot-put the anvil at the other, ample examples of why they are the winners have been presented. This topic, however, demonstrates the slandering that goes on in the world in which women live.

Watching the various post-Oscar shows, one thing was made very evident: women looooove to put down other women. Oh sure, some female talk show hosts were kinder in their analysis of who had the prettiest dress and why, but most were quick to point out who should have been wearing a bra, who needed a seam sewn into her skirt, and who needed to redo her up-do.

Although all who spoke of Jennifer Lawrence's fall up the stairs were sympathetic in their play-by-play, that actress will go down in history, not for the award she won, but for tripping in a dress...Because apparently, tripping in a dress has never happened before?

Men don't vie with each other over parenting styles. Coach your kid in hockey, don't coach your kid; men don't even engage in conversations which categorizes one man as better than another related to issues which pertain to their children.

As for the Academy Awards, I don't even know what the men were wearing because the various women critiquing the Red Carpet, after gushing briefly over Bradley Cooper's blue eyes, quickly returned to the careful analysis of the thread count on each actress' gown, and wisecracked about Helena Bonham Carter's hairstyle (apparently her stylist neglected to actually style it).

In nursing, a profession dominated mostly by women, many nurses could name off several examples of occurrences when kindness and compassion were prevalent in their practice but not always exhibited between colleagues.

Research has shown not only that jobs held disproportionately by women report lower wages and pension funds than jobs held disproportionately by men, but that bullying in the workplace is not gender biased within male workers. Seventy per cent of the time, women will chose a target of the same sex. Why is it that in a male-dominated world, women are so quick to cut each other down, rather than speak up in defense of one another?

As someone who stayed at home with my four children for 13 years before going back to school, and now is slowly entering the work force, I can attest to the fact that my parenting technique has not changed. "Working Parent's Guilt" is squashed by my exhaustion. Last night, after completing my third 12-hour shift, when my 13-year-old daughter asked me for help with her geometry homework, rather than drag my weary body to the kitchen table, I offered my 17-year-old cold hard cash to be my substitute.

And just as Jennifer Lawrence flipped off the press later in the evening, after tripping up those stairs in that now infamous dress, I would do the same to anyone who dared criticize me. As a stay-at-home mother, I did what kept me sane then. And as a working mother, I pay my kids to do what keeps me sane now. Judge that ladies.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2729637 2013-02-21T17:52:03-05:00 2013-04-23T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ General Hospital playing on the TV.

Despite my constant studying and hard work, when I got a bad grade in math, there was no sugar-coating my failure by blaming the math teacher for not teaching properly and the school for hiring the crappy math teacher. My parents did not hire a math tutor. They did not sit for hours explaining the homework to me in methodical detail. They didn't even speak to the teacher to find out why I had done so poorly. I got a simple yet stern, "Study harder next time."

When I was mean to my little brother, I was told I was mean. A cut knee or a scraped elbow was not an occasion where my pain was validated by describing me as a "brave little girl." Instead, as my dad wiped the snot from my nose with an old hankie from his pocket, I was told, "Stop being such a baby." Further injuries were not prevented by bubblewrapping me via the purchase of elbow and knee pads.

My mother and father were not aware that speaking the truth was detrimental to the very development of my confidence. Little did they know in the late '70s that the words used to communicate with us then, would today be considered not only cruel, but they would be obsolete. Who calls their kid a baby? Who tells their kids to "smarten up"? To say such a thing implies that they aren't smart, and that's not right. That could...scar them for life! Instead we kneel down at their level, wipe their tears with a fresh Kleenex pulled from the tidy little pack in our purses, and tell our kids, "It's okay for big boys and girls to cry. And you are going to do great things with your life."

When my children were little, and I was crouched at eye level with my toddler, patiently explaining, "No no, you must not hit your friend," only to watch him go off and conk his two-year-old buddy over the head once again, my mother interjected with a comment I will never forget. She said, "I feel sorry for you modern mothers. It was so much easier raising kids in my day. We didn't worry about that self-esteem stuff."

Although I was horrified then, as I've spent years meticulously choosing politically correct ways of disciplining my children; as I've parented my children in such a way as to preserve their dignity and develop their valuable self-confidence; as I've issued the time-outs after the obligatorily chanted "1, 2, 3, magic!" mantra -- I now think my mom was onto something.

As I chatted with a homeless person on the street the other day as my kids and I were walking into a restaurant for supper, upon sitting down at the table, my son said, "I hope you didn't give that guy the money you were going to give me for pizza day at school tomorrow." In that moment, as the reality of what I had done; how I had single-handedly created these beings with so much self-esteem that they considered themselves entitled to everything, I said something to my kids I never would have said before for fear of damaging them psychologically. I said, "Stop being so selfish." Then I said, "You'll all be donating your allowance to that person out there."

And then I said, "I know exactly where I went wrong." I need to ask my mom for advice.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2697742 2013-02-18T07:14:17-05:00 2013-04-20T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/ The View this morning, one of the topics being discussed made me turn up the volume more loudly to be certain I was hearing correctly. The controversy whirred around body parts, more specifically reproductive parts, and what we, as parents, should be teaching our children to call them. As the cast talked over each other, the women, and one man, celebrity co-host and chef Tyler Florence, gave their respective opinions of how kids should be referring to their genitalia. The consensus: It just doesn't seem right to hear a little girl referring to her breasts. Boobies is much cuter.

Because we're concerned about the cuteness of these body parts on a seven-year-old?

I had no idea this was even still a topic worthy of televised debate, but after four of the five panel members admitted to giving their children's private parts cutesy nicknames, and after picking up my jaw from the sofa, I am still convinced the round table discussion was scripted. These people can't really believe that the word areola should not be spoken by children. And furthermore surely...SURELY no grown woman refers to her vagina as a cookie...at least I think she referred to it as that but I can't be certain since she was saying it in a baby voice. Right, Sherri Shepherd?

Having had this conversation with my friends when I was a young mother with little children, it was made very clear that the days of being scared to call a penis a penis were far gone. Although I, myself, have never heard my mother use any of the appropriate terms, I was, or at least I thought I was, parenting in a generation where children were not supposed to be scared of their anatomy, and as such, from the very first child, it never occurred to me that issuing pseudonyms to a scrotum was even an option.

The rationale behind this switch in old-fashioned ideologies that had us as children referring to our vaginas as tulips, yoohoos, noonies, and ~insert childhood vagina nickname of choice~ was to protect our own children; to give them power over their bodies and a voice should, God forbid, they ever have to defend themselves. Giving proper names to private body parts revokes the mystique behind genitalia, and makes it easier for children to engage in dialogue with their parents about these private parts.

As a young adolescent, I remember fearing the day I would get my period because I didn't even know the proper name for a sanitary napkin. Frightened not only by the appearance of this blood from my noony that now meant I was "a woman" according to the whispered aside my mother had offered helpfully one day when I caught her hiding her pads in the very back of her closet, I was also tormented by the thought of having to tell her that I too now needed...wait for it...a "sandwich" because my panties were bloody. At least the Tooth Fairy left me a quarter when I lost a tooth. The very least Mother Nature could have done was leave me a box of Tampax under my pillow.

This is not the case with my daughter, as she tells of this one and that one who has started her period, and ever the over-achiever, my kid has a stockpile of a variety of sanitary products tucked away in her schoolbag, dance bag, and dresser drawer awaiting the moment she will get to crack that first box. The growth of pubic hair is announced publicly in our home, and although not celebrated like the loss of a baby tooth, none of the adolescents are ashamed of the respective changes in their bodies, or approaching me with various concerns about said respective changes.

It had never occurred to me, all these years later, after referring to my children's anatomy by the appropriate names that this was even still an issue. We don't find a cute name for an arm, so why the shame in calling breasts, breasts? Although The View panel was trying to yuck it up, to hear an adult in today's society, where arming our children with knowledge and self-awareness in every other aspect of their lives is potentially tantamount to saving their lives, i.e. stranger danger awareness, cyber-bullying awareness, drug awareness -- to hear Joy Behar say that a penis is not a name you give to a little boy's...well, penis, rather a name used when speaking about a grown man's, my head shook in awe and wonder.

If children grow up hearing nonsensical words describing body parts, confusion, shame, and embarrassment are going to be associated with them. By labeling genitalia by any other word than what it really is barricades the way for questions, concerns, and dialogue related to their biological function. And sure, you may think it's acceptable to call a vagina a little flowery name when your little girl is in diapers, but guess what, you aren't all of a sudden going to shirk the nickname in lieu of the proper one when the time comes to talk about the importance of birth control and sex.

Again, I will admit though, as interesting as it was watching the panel on The View confess to referring to a penis as a "peepee" or as celebrity chef Tyler Florence proudly proclaimed of his son's "wienie," the best laugh I've had in a long time is when Whoopi Goldberg interjected and said, "You can't say [I'm making a hot dog]! Then the kid runs around thinking you're going to cook him."

Point made, Whoopi.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2665963 2013-02-12T12:06:32-05:00 2013-04-14T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
Perfect Parenting Tip #1: Children need socialization

By the time my first baby could hold his head up, our enrolment in Mommy & Me groups was not only viewed as important, in my opinion it was crucial to his social development. To not take part in these programs which were meant to teach infants how to interact with other infants, a skill which could only be accomplished through the congregation of enthusiastic mothers determined to one-up each other via the sharing of their babies' impressive feats -- to forgo these classes meant endangering the child's ability to function in society.

By the time my second child was born, playgroups and Mommy & Me socializing opportunities were forfeited for time on my front step with a magazine while my kids frolicked in our sandbox. My once great concern that my children would not know how to interact with other children was replaced by my concern that their appetites would be spoiled by the ingestion of too much dirt...and even that worry settled once I figured out that what goes in must come out.

Perfect Parenting Tip #2: Education is so very important

The first few years with my children were spent sitting on the floor with them, presenting flashcards on which colours, letters, and numbers featured prominently. If a book, DVD, or toy had the label Baby Einstein on it, or a certain commercial spoke of increasing children's IQs, the book, DVD, or toy was added to my collection.

When my kids entered preschool and primary school, we spent hours upon hours of time at the kitchen table practising printing and spelling. School projects were a family affair in which my child's final product was more a reflection of my own artistic abilities than his/hers. Grades and report cards were celebrated like Christmas; the ceremonial waving of the report card along with hoots, hollers, and cheers at the sight of straight-As reflective of my obsessive need to be a perfect parent.

By the time my kids got older, my zealous need to be involved in their academic undertakings had flickered out to a faint ember, and grades and report cards simply became a piece of paper that gave me the opportunity to say to my children, "You did your best, that's all that matters;" the sight of Bs and even Cs a reminder that my children's independence is far more valuable than the honour roll. And let's be honest, my time was better spent watching reruns of 90210 than hovering over their shoulders while they sped through math homework that I didn't understand anyway.

Perfect Parenting Tip #3: No guns allowed

This one can be summed up very simply: my kids were absolutely not going to play with guns.

Fast forward to the third boy, and my battle to forbid my children from playing with weapons was lost long ago when tree branches, hockey sticks, and/or anything made of plastic, wood, or metal in the shape of a rifle was not only a fan favourite, but it was accompanied by the sound of gun shots.

Today, water guns, super soakers, plastic swords, battery operated devices that are shiny, light up, and make a lot of war-like noises are all perfectly acceptable. It should also be added that violent video games are played in my home, and furthermore, high scores and top-rated achievements in said violent video games are congratulated by family members (me) in hopes of showing interest towards my teenagers' video gaming hobbies.

Perfect Parenting Tip #4: Children need their mummies

The first several years of my children's lives, I was present for all of the major and not so major events: recitals, hockey games, hockey practices. It didn't matter if other parents were even going to be there; if there was an event, I was standing in the back of the classroom videotaping.

As my children got a little older though, sitting in the dance studio waiting for my daughter's class to end, my desire to use the hour to sit in my vehicle to read a book, or run to the grocery store without any small beings attached to my hip also grew into a desire to experience a life of my own. I entered university, worked towards my baccalaureate of nursing, and throughout these past five years, I've become that mother who pulls up outside the studio to wait for her daughter, rather than the one who is still sitting inside. I'm that mom who works night shifts, and then has to sleep all day, forcing my children to get themselves off to school without my presence at the door handing out backpacks, lunch bags, and kisses.

Sure, I could let the guilt that my desire to live my own life has altered my "Perfect Parenting" doctrine. But after coming home from work this morning, when I asked my nine-year-old "Did you miss me last night at bedtime?" and he replied, "You weren't home last night?" I realize that my kids don't know about the "Perfect Parenting" rules, so I get to rewrite the manual.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2653865 2013-02-11T16:10:31-05:00 2013-04-13T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
That's horrifying. What's even more horrifying is that I let this happen. Slowly, the introduction of computer-oriented activities entered my home, and because I was not consistently diligent in enforcing time restraints, the restriction of certain games, and demanding that time be spent as a family as opposed to catching my own breath when they were occupied with Netflix or memorizing the words to the newest Justin Bieber video via YouTube -- I now have children who are unable to sit and reflect.

Gone are the days when you walked home from school with nothing but your thoughts. Nowadays, children have earphone wires dangling down either side of their faces, the rhythmic beat of songs I've never even heard played out loud because the extinction of record players and ghetto blasters has granted parents peace and quiet, but not peace of mind.

Speaking to children is a dance which requires sidestepping between the iPod, the cellphone, and the laptop. Children may look up when told to, but today, the oft-asked question, "How was school today?" is answered hesitatingly not because they have nothing to say, but because they are distracted by the vibrating in their pocket alerting them to an incoming text.

Of course the easy answer to this is to cut them off. Take away all electronic devices. Enforce family time. It should not be a choice, but an expectation. But I'll admit that a game of Scrabble in my home is not only difficult because it doesn't come with spellcheck, it's almost painful watching these kids writhe in the agony of their withdrawal.

The return of their various gadgets produces such relief and joy, that the smile of gratitude from each of them as I hand back their respective apparatuses is worth more than the gritting of teeth and the pulling of hair (theirs as well as mine), occurring while I lectured one of them on the fact that the word "shade" takes an "e" at the end, then argued with the other that, yes, it was important to know this.

This generation craves popularity. Opportunities for reality TV shows, YouTube viral videos, gamer status, and even Facebook posts and Twitter tweets prompting shares, likes, and retweets is creating a generation of children who not only live their lives in the public eye, but experience feelings of failure when that Instagram picture doesn't get as many hits as the one posted prior to it.

It's all about fame now. Are children consciously seeking it or is it a subliminal manifestation created by the various "15-minute" celebrities popping up so often and rapidly that one doesn't have time to fade away before the next one makes an appearance?

My kids don't expect to be the next great YouTuber or the next Honey Boo Boo, but even if it's unspoken and they deny it, surely the live video-gaming streams they upload or the funny freestyle dance my daughter and her friends post on Facebook and Youtube, have for their purpose self-glorification, and a certain degree of hope that somehow, someway they will become the next "It" kids.

I can't deny that I don't understand the draw. I'll admit that even writing for a blog has for its purpose not only the love of writing, of seeing my words in e-print, but there's always that secret desire that someone will notice me.

That having been said however, after having had my own 11 minutes and 42 seconds of fame on the Charles Adler radio show, the fact that my recollection of the event is but a blur except for the vivid memory of my lips trembling the entire time, I now have a great deal more respect for Honey Boo Boo.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2595912 2013-02-03T08:06:19-05:00 2013-04-05T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
Really? 'Cause from where I'm standing, seems to me she's giving as good as her kid does.

At the age of 15, I spent six months running scared from a bully. The bully in question would wait for me by the door of my classes, and as I would exit, she would follow closely on my heels; literally on my heels, until the backs of my shoes were frayed and my heels were blistered and bleeding.

I did finally tell my parents who in turn told the school. But 30 years ago, "anti-bullying" campaigns were non-existent, and the mean girl dodged not only consequences from the school, but her parents told my dad that if he was "tougher on me," I'd be able to handle what their kid was dishing out. Somehow I don't think making their daughter stand on the street with a sign around her neck while she posed for a picture would have solved the problem, especially if the household mentality required the individuals involved to be "tougher." Holding a sign would probably conjure the same irritated look as the one on the boy in the Facebook picture, and probably further fuel my bully's hatred of me.

Anti-bullying campaigns have been part of school curricula for at least 10 years, but I question whether the time spent teaching children to "tell a grown up" is even helpful, when in fact, the concerns stem from deeper sources than simply some kid with anger issues. Strength and power are valued in our society. As adults, we constantly strive to be the best we can be; get that promotion over the other guy at work; have a better car than the neighbour next door; buy a bigger house than the one we already can't afford. Survival of the fittest is no longer simply referring to Darwinism, it's a motto that drives our North American culture.

Even reality TV shows are set up to represent a microcosm of society, stacked with strong and weak players; the weaker ones edited to seem stupid, incapable, and useless of furthering themselves in the game. Of course this is purposefully set up in this fashion, but how quickly the roles are assumed in the game, and the bullies are immediately identified by both the viewers and the players, and yet how often are the bullies transformed into charming heroes given the cash in the end. Boston Rob from Survivor? Evil Will from Big Brother? Donald Trump? Mean anything to anybody?

Their superiority is not only flaunted by them, but the producers of their respective shows thrived when these outspoken individuals were in the spotlight referring to the other contestants in derogatory fashion: stupid and weak most often reasons for the demise of their nemesis.

Certainly parents don't encourage their children to dominate over other children in an aggressive manner, but when bullying occurs -- when the parents are contacted by the teacher, principal, basketball coach, boy scout leader and/or the ballet teacher informing them that their kid isn't playing nice -- accepting the truth about our children's behaviour may not only be difficult, but it may be reflective of our own subconscious need to position ourselves above others.

Recently a 13-year-old girl hid crying in a bathroom stall at a pre-teen dance because a group of boys had spent several hours tormenting her with rude and derogatory comments. The tormented girl's parents called the parents of the boys in question, and proceeded to explain what their children had done.

The young girl's mother was told by each of the boys' parents that 1) The boys were only playing, 2) The girl was being overly sensitive, 3) The girl was provoking the boys, and 4) The girl was lying; the scenario had not in fact taken place. Nobody apologized for their children's behaviour, and when the word "bullying" was used, the boys' parents became incensed, wondering out loud, "I don't know where he would get that from?" Yeah, I wonder...

Comedian Chris Rock, who has openly discussed being bullied by other children throughout his childhood, has stated, "I am not pro-bully." That having been said however, he also attributes his success to the fact that being bullied made him stronger.

So is putting a sign around your kid's neck teaching him a lesson or is it teaching him to be better at being tougher? And ultimately, isn't the entire event aimed at making the mom seem like this proactive, marvellous mother, who despite her humiliation tactics, is a hard-ass? And let's face it, North America loves a bully, as long as she/he is wearing a cape.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2517987 2013-01-22T17:03:39-05:00 2013-03-24T05:12:02-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
As a new Christian, one who discovered Facebook long before discovering Jesus, my addiction is so gripping that waking up at 2 a.m. with insomnia (no doubt brought on by what my next status update will be), actually has me battling the urge to log into my account to see what 200 of my closest friends are doing during the wee hours of the morning.

Although I've slowly weaned myself off of social media by deactivating my Twitter, Instagram and Google+ accounts, declaring that these interfered with my Christian walk, I did not do so with Facebook, justifying the creeping of my friends' profiles as a good thing, since it shows my interest in them and their lives.

However, adding insult to injury to my Creator, for fear of upsetting those on my friend list who aren't Christians, I avoid writing, liking or sharing any cartoons, updates or Memes related to Christ. This purposeful neglect not only takes me far off the walkway, but it has me digging in the dirt, searching for redemption. When I made the decision to deactivate my Twitter account (and reactivated it within 30 days justifying my actions by promising that I would use this forum as a way to promote my writing, which I again promised myself would be for good; not posts exalting my long-standing adoration of boots and handbags), I made the conscious decision to include the word "Christian" in my profile bio, thereby forcing me to maintain my integrity and values. To my horror, within 24 hours of adding this word to an otherwise harmless description of who I am, more than 20 tweeps "unfollowed" me.

After reading a book by Kyle Idleman called "Not a Fan," the realization that the difference between being a fan of Jesus and being one of his followers slapped me in the face with shame, and the recognition that my reluctance to embrace my new faith, fearing ridicule and preferring instead the accolades of strangers rather than salvation, has in fact pushed me further in my commitment to Christ.

Refusing to buckle under the pressure of public propriety, acknowledging instead that social media and its place in today's society can be used to promote the word of God, as long as the Truth, the Way and the Light are not muddied by a desire for self-promotion, this very post requires courage and the realization that toes will be stepped on -- probably mostly mine.

It is a sad realization however that today's Christian is fearful of proclaiming his/her love for a God who gave His only son for our salvation. The persecution of Christians runs deep. My favorite show, "Grey's Anatomy," depicts this very stance with one of the characters, April, who remained a virgin up until last season, repeatedly mentioning Jesus as her reason for her chastity. Mock her if you will, but her desire to follow Christ rather than succumb to the sexual advances of pretty much all of the male characters on the show, was a storyline rarely seen during Prime Time; shows depicting demons sucking each other's blood no doubt garnishes higher ratings.

Although a small step in the right direction for the writers to have even included a Christian character in their storyline, this was quickly bumbled last season when April lost her virginity to Hottie McHottie Pants. Rather than allow April to go "Oops!" ask for forgiveness and continue to pursue her Christian values, the writers have her running around the hospital with her panties around her ankles. Clearly, if the writers were actually interested in respecting Christian values for this particular character, her descent into sin would have been written more tactfully; and more to the point, it would have taken into account the Christian viewers who were supportive of April's love of Christ, but also her humanity, rather than portray her as the hospital's newest nympho. I wish I could say that Shonda Rhimes finally figured it out, but during a scene in the OR when Miranda Bailey and April were performing surgery on a lady who had vajazzled her vjayjay, Bailey, in reply to an embarrassed April, staties, "Oh right, Jesus isn't a fan of the vajazzle." Funny, yes, but unnecessary and insulting if you are a Christian vajazzler.

As a new Christian I have a lot to learn. Integrating my faith into daily life, of which social media is still a part of, I was pleased to see my daughter putting up a picture on Instagram, the caption stating, "Jesus is my faith, not my religion." Proudly, she then announced, "It's already got 22 likes." Although I may not have yet crossed the chasm from fan to follower, if I want those around me to respect my newfound faith, I need to take a page from my daughter's book, and not hide my Bible under a People magazine when I'm in the lunch room at work.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2435711 2013-01-09T12:52:54-05:00 2013-03-11T05:12:01-04:00

Sandra Charron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandra-charron/
"That lady asked for money. Why didn't she have her own money for the bus," my daughter said, her voice betraying her fear.

"One day you might have to ask a total stranger for bus fare too," I replied.

"She was native," my daughter said to her friend, as though their suspicions had been confirmed.

Knowing that this conversation would and did serve as a platform for moral as well as historical teaching lessons, my greater concern involved the obvious prejudice already instilled in these young girls.

How come my 10-year-old daughter is racist?

Growing up in a multicultural area of south Montreal in the '70s, I listened to my parents speak of some of our ethnic neighbours, describing their culture and their diverse beliefs in derogatory tones and language. My racism at the age of 10, although not acceptable, was somewhat understandable. But my daughter's?

Shame seared into my soul as I quickly mentally scanned various conversations spoken in our home over the years, and realized that before my Aboriginal studies courses taken in university in the last few years, I probably never would have even walked by that bus bench, taking instead some kind of detour to avoid the woman.

Thank goodness for a university program which had, as a prerequisite for graduation, a course in Aboriginal studies, otherwise I wouldn't know about the devastation that the Aboriginal community in Canada has endured for centuries. I wouldn't know about any of it because First Nations, Metis, and Inuit history was not taught while I was in school. More to the point though, the Canadian government doesn't like to bring it up, isn't truthful about what Canada has done to its Indigenous people, and is still hiding the fact that genocide has occurred in this country by the hand of the white man.

Our country prides itself on its worldwide humanitarian undertakings, yet our government balks at criticism in the United Nations' human rights report which states, "dramatically disproportionate...access to government services such as housing, health care, education, water and child protection" in its indigenous population. Of course it would be too much to expect that accountability be taken, and that truth be spoken of the atrocities that have occurred in our history. Before any progress can be made towards breaking down the reigning prejudice, our society, and more specifically the next generation of Canadians needs to know not only exactly what Aboriginal people have suffered, but also what they have overcome, and how they are rallying against a Canadian government that has repeatedly hid the crimes done to them.

I grew up in ignorant times when degradation and social class were issued based on the simplest of cultural identifiers such as the language one spoke or the smells of ethnic foods wafting through open windows.

But today? Why aren't today's youth more knowledgeable than I was?

Wondering if Canadian schools are now, finally, openly teaching about the crushing blows the indigenous people have endured in Canadian history, when questioned about his academic learning on this topic, my teen replied, yes. He has been taught about the early conflict between Canada's First Nations people and the European arrival, casually stating, as though he has never heard me expounding upon the unfairness of the treaties, the brutality and criminality of the residential school system, and the abhorrent state of many reservations. "Yeah, I know about all that, but it's not our fault the Natives were unfit for the challenges of the Europeans."

Does the UN realize that it's easy for Canada to continue to ignore the oppression of its Aboriginal population and the avoidance of their human rights when even our children's curriculum has been twisted so that the most shameful part of our history does not cause our white children to squirm with discomfort in their comfortable classrooms.

The expectation would be that after a thorough history lesson, our children should be horrified by the treatment of the Aboriginal community, not rationalizing it by stating, "At that time in history, Europeans were doing the same thing to indigenous people all over the world. It's what Europeans did."

Oh. Well, that's a relief. Cue sarcasm.




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