The last post i wrote moved me in to a panic attack. I started to shake like all the heat was leaving my body, i pressed publish and went under the covers to warm up. Something moved, i felt exposed, less afraid, and now, well now, i feel like retreating, being small again. On February 23rd of 1995(i’m a freak with dates, phone#’s, birthdays, etc.) I had a moment of feeling like a giant, like my feet were the size of boats, and i was pounding happily down Pender Street in Chinatown. Why so happy? Why so big? The previous day i had completed a 20month, 20minute long process of a human rights complaint against a former employer who was writing us notes telling us not to serve Native people, and the 23rd of February was the day that i presented a project idea ( a summer chalk drawing project at the corner of Main and Hastings) to the Carnegie Centre Association board and they approved it. Happy, because i stood up in an unfair and illegal situation and i did something about it, and that i pitched an idea that i thought was good, and bold in its way, and not even knowing if i had the experience to do it, people were willing to let me try. Big, because i was filled with energy like i had never felt before, an energy that made me feel i was 10 times my actual size, in a good way. There was a quote on the sidewalk during the Speaking in Chalks project, which went like this- ” life shrinks and expands in proportion to ones courage.” What do you say after that, its true? I think so.
I was thinking about this idea of false peace. The peace we try and achieve is more often than not, the absence of war kind of peace. Whether that is in Countries who’s resources we want, or not being honest with our friends, family, colleauges and people in positions of power, for the sake of avoiding conflict. Not genuine peace. When i think of this word, i feel aggitated, i don’t know entirely why, i guess its felt like a copout, peace, the default position. I’m finding it incredibly hard to write this post, i feel like i should keep going, but all of the words look bad, unintelligent, disconnected. I feel like i fell off my bike, or a horse, scared myself, maybe felt like what moved last week was enough, i don’t want to share any more about my life, or my take on the world, its depressing, and i want to be funny and smart. I don’t want to stop, not for some addictive reason, but because i feel like its helping me make sense of things, ideas, and feelings. I have things i want to write about, but maybe it is an addictive thing, the charge of people seeing my words, knowing how i feel, giving me feedback, feeling less isolated. That’s the point of this i think, to feel less isolated. I can’t stand phoniness, i feel like i’m being phoney, i hate it, being nice when i don’t feel like it, trying to sound clever when i don’t feel it, and the worst i think, is talking to other people about my issues with some people, it feels like dissing, sometimes it is, and it makes me feel untrustworthy. I do it for the sake of avoiding conflict. What do i think is going to happen, there going to hit me, not be my friend anymore, never work with me again, maybe. Maybe i don’t care anymore, i wish that were true.
I saw a good definition of Peace when i googled definitions and found this site- http://www.fasngo.org/index.html- Femmes Africa Solidarite
Peace
- can be positive or negative. When we talk about negative peace, it refers simply to the absence of war. In this context, peace is unlikely to last unless further steps are taken to prevent the resurgence of violence. Positive peace is not just the absence of conflict but rather the presence of mechanisms that allow people to resolve conflicts using non-violent means.
I want this kind of peace, i don’t think i know how to do it, not yet anyway. I’m tired and i’ve realized that i know what looks wrong to me, but i don’t really know how to change it.
If i were to be truly honest, i would have to say that when i see a housing development or hip store in the Downtown Eastside i feel a combination of relief and dread. The relief is that the streets will soon be crowded by people who are less wounded, and the dread is about wondering where the wounded will go and that the chattiness, the forced intimacy that comes from sharing trauma, sharing struggles, being social, because the public space is the private space, the gathering spaces, people say hi, look at each other, comment, offer to help if your carrying heavy loads; those qualities will fade, and more fashionable chattiness will replace it. I wonder if i’m overreacting sometimes, if it won’t be so bad. Between the Churches, and Non-profits, the Province, the City and the Health Authority running a substantial amount of affordable and social housing, that large scale displacement isn’t entirely possible. That said, Chinatown is in danger of becoming a theme park like Gastown, it will be Chinatown chic, with white people running shops selling Asian fusion design, and pillows that are $35. Without a plan for maintaining affordable ammenities, and the less wounded moving in, they will drive the market, their needs will dominate, because they have more power, and the more wounded, well i don’t know, i had get a job here before, a phrase that often gets spewed at people on the street, but honestly i don’t know, i guess they’ll survive or die, or move, or stick around. I think the neighborhood, like the rest of the city will become a Hollywood version of itself, it already is.
