A woman's worth; Overreaction to tasteless comment
Bugle-Observer
Tue Dec 8 2009
Page: A4
Section: Opinion
Byline: Katelin Dean
"Girls, we need to make more babies or we will never be able to support our future," York MLA Carl Urquhart wrote on his Facebook page the other day much to the chagrin of Liberal MLA Joan MacAlpine-Stiles.
Though it wasn't the most intelligent comment in the world and I agree with some criticism of this statement, I think McAlpine-Stiles blew it out of proportion to steer attention away from her decision to support the premier's plan to sell NB Power.
Of course I think it's wrong to imply that a woman's only role is to pop babies out. I also realize that with baby boomers well on their way to retirement, the province requires tax dollars from a workforce to fill the financial void that will be created. This workforce can be created by increasing the population in the traditional sense - through procreation. Or, the government can work harder on immigration and bring forth population growth that way.
And, as a political figure, Urquhart should have been much more conscientious while posting on his Facebook page.
Though, as someone who uses Facebook and writes a blog, we often post these things without really examining the repercussions. My guess is that Urquhart was looking to the future of the province and realized population needs to grow to maintain the tax dollars that are coming in. When posting on Facebook or a blog or Twitter or some other social networking tool, a quick thought can be expressed and broadcast in a few seconds.
As a female MLA from the opposite party, MacAlpine-Stiles swiftly criticized Urquhart's statement, as she should have.
What I find troubling was the timing.
In the same day, I read the story about her chastising him regarding his insensitive comment and then, further down on the page, read a story about how she has decided to vote with her party regarding the sale of NB Power. She originally told the media she hadn't read the MOU and would vote with her conscious when she decided. It's so convenient she was able to wave a shiny object - a woman's rights issue - to detract from something much more prevalent.
The sale of NB Power is an extremely heated and much-debated issue in the province right now.
While she found what Urquhart said "unspeakably offensive," many in the province would find her decision to vote in favour of the sale of NB Power equally as offensive and there's no doubt in my mind that she'd have some concept of the political gravity of her decision.
While I am well aware of how hard women have worked for equality and to shed the image of being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, I think using a woman's issue to detract from another political decision is offensive to me as an egalitarian.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
As appearing in Dec. 1's Bugle-Observer
Since the bugle-observer is offline, i decided to post today's column here.
By Katelin Dean
John Lennon said, "life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."
In high school I didn't have many friends, though there were phases that were pretty typical of a teenage girl.
One time, I was excited about four girls who let me hang out with them during school and my mom let me invite the four of them over for a sleepover in Grade 9.
We stayed up most of the night talking about boys we had crushes on, putting make up on each other and watching movies.
It, incidentally, was the weekend Tim Hortons' introduced Iced Cappuccinos, and we lived within walking distance to a Tim Hortons.
Picture this: five 14-year-old girls, too much caffeine and talking about what our lives would be like when we were older.
We talked about getting married to the boy of our dreams (or at least who we thought was cute at the time), having kids and having wonderful careers.
I know I had it all planned out.
I was going to marry the French horn player from my high school band. We were going to have a terrific swing band – comprised of the people in our high school band – play our wedding reception and over 200 people would be there to see us celebrate our undying love for one another.
Then, after our honeymoon in Rome, we would come back and I was going to be a civil engineer – just like my dad – and he would be a professor.
I planned for us to have one child when I turned 25. Her name was going to be Abbey Rae – named after my two grandfathers. I wanted to have Abbey at 25, so I would still be fairly young when she went off to university because the French horn player and I would still have a lot of living left to do.
This, of course, was unbeknownst to him. But to me, once I admitted it to these four girls, it was real.
It seems hilarious now, as a 26-year-old single gal
I maintained a fairly close friendship with two of these for ladies for the past 12 years, though it has been sporadic, and they came to visit me this weekend.
Just before going to sleep on Saturday night, we reminisced about the over-caffienated sleepover so many years ago and how our lives are so much different than we had planned.
If you're reading this column, you know that I'm not designing bridges for you to drive on as a civil engineer.
As for the French horn player, he is playing bass in a reasonably popular pop/rock band in Halifax and is in a long-term relationship with a woman he met after university.
And as for me, I am super single with no immediate plans of entering a relationship or having little Abbey Rae.
Until fairly recently, I worried about when I was going to marry and have kids, but now, I'm just living life and having a good time.
Though it's different from the plan I had originally crafted as a young teenager, my life is working out pretty well overall.
John Lennon was right.
By Katelin Dean
John Lennon said, "life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."
In high school I didn't have many friends, though there were phases that were pretty typical of a teenage girl.
One time, I was excited about four girls who let me hang out with them during school and my mom let me invite the four of them over for a sleepover in Grade 9.
We stayed up most of the night talking about boys we had crushes on, putting make up on each other and watching movies.
It, incidentally, was the weekend Tim Hortons' introduced Iced Cappuccinos, and we lived within walking distance to a Tim Hortons.
Picture this: five 14-year-old girls, too much caffeine and talking about what our lives would be like when we were older.
We talked about getting married to the boy of our dreams (or at least who we thought was cute at the time), having kids and having wonderful careers.
I know I had it all planned out.
I was going to marry the French horn player from my high school band. We were going to have a terrific swing band – comprised of the people in our high school band – play our wedding reception and over 200 people would be there to see us celebrate our undying love for one another.
Then, after our honeymoon in Rome, we would come back and I was going to be a civil engineer – just like my dad – and he would be a professor.
I planned for us to have one child when I turned 25. Her name was going to be Abbey Rae – named after my two grandfathers. I wanted to have Abbey at 25, so I would still be fairly young when she went off to university because the French horn player and I would still have a lot of living left to do.
This, of course, was unbeknownst to him. But to me, once I admitted it to these four girls, it was real.
It seems hilarious now, as a 26-year-old single gal
I maintained a fairly close friendship with two of these for ladies for the past 12 years, though it has been sporadic, and they came to visit me this weekend.
Just before going to sleep on Saturday night, we reminisced about the over-caffienated sleepover so many years ago and how our lives are so much different than we had planned.
If you're reading this column, you know that I'm not designing bridges for you to drive on as a civil engineer.
As for the French horn player, he is playing bass in a reasonably popular pop/rock band in Halifax and is in a long-term relationship with a woman he met after university.
And as for me, I am super single with no immediate plans of entering a relationship or having little Abbey Rae.
Until fairly recently, I worried about when I was going to marry and have kids, but now, I'm just living life and having a good time.
Though it's different from the plan I had originally crafted as a young teenager, my life is working out pretty well overall.
John Lennon was right.
Friday, November 20, 2009
the third wheel
Before we learn how to drive a bicycle, many of us start with tricycles - a bicycle with three wheels.
It has more stability, thus we are less likely to fall and get hurt. I know when I used to drive a tricycle, I loved it - but when I saw some older kids driving two-wheelers, I knew that's the freedom I longed for. I could just feel my long, messy, dark hair flapping in the breeze (under my pink helmet of course!). Not only did I long for that freedom, but I knew I could go much farther and faster once I got the hang of it. The risk of getting hurt grew stronger, however.
Fast forward to life in my mid-twenties.
The tricycle has become two of the closest friends I've ever had. We used to lean on each other and support one another like a tricycle does a child. It was safe and tremendously fun. And just like adults long to go back to their childhood, I long to go back to the days when we were an innocent tricycle - but I fear it's impossible.
I feel as though I'm the third wheel that is holding a bicycle from finding its freedom. I know my friends have fun when it's the three of us because it's pure, safe and it used to be carefree - we still pretend it is in many ways.
It has more stability, thus we are less likely to fall and get hurt. I know when I used to drive a tricycle, I loved it - but when I saw some older kids driving two-wheelers, I knew that's the freedom I longed for. I could just feel my long, messy, dark hair flapping in the breeze (under my pink helmet of course!). Not only did I long for that freedom, but I knew I could go much farther and faster once I got the hang of it. The risk of getting hurt grew stronger, however.
Fast forward to life in my mid-twenties.
The tricycle has become two of the closest friends I've ever had. We used to lean on each other and support one another like a tricycle does a child. It was safe and tremendously fun. And just like adults long to go back to their childhood, I long to go back to the days when we were an innocent tricycle - but I fear it's impossible.
I feel as though I'm the third wheel that is holding a bicycle from finding its freedom. I know my friends have fun when it's the three of us because it's pure, safe and it used to be carefree - we still pretend it is in many ways.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Grief
Giving grief, getting grief and grieving.
I've never really thought much about the connection before.
This world is full of unfortunate incidents: people die, people get hurt, people do bad things. The world is also full of wonderful things and in my opinion, I see so many more of those. At least that's what I try to see.
We all have instances of loss in our lives and people deal with them in different ways.
Fortunately and unfortunately, I'm in an industry where my job is to report news.
A car accident where the driver ends up dead is news. It's unfortunate, and if I had control over the world, I'd never report it because it would never happen.
When these things happen, people are continually looking for answers. My job is to communicate those answers as factually and responsibly as humanly possible. Many avenues are used to get to this point (police reports, fire reports, etc.) I do believe there are problems in the journalism industry - too much sensationalism sometimes, which can cause desensitization.
We're coming upon the eighth anniversary of 9/11, and I'll never forget the first time I saw footage of an airplane crashing into a building. Now,due to incessant replays of the tragic incident, it's so much a part of our lives that it doesn't even seem real. Occasionally we journalists who are trying to find balance between respect and news get grief because of the sensationalists out there.
This weekend there was a tragic car accident. From the time I heard about it, I felt sick about it. It wasn't someone I was close friends with, but a human life just the same. He lived a hard, fast life with many hinderences. Some would argue these hinderences were his own fault - I believe accidents are called accidents for a reason. No one sets out to lose the use of their legs, or hurt their friends, or wrap their cars around trees - NO ONE. He is someone's son, someone's sibling and someone's friend. No one can ever take their grief away.
Out of grief, I'm sure, one of his friends made the decision to send me a nasty note.
This is where the giving grief comes in. This friend took his grief and, instead of dealing with it, felt the need to, not only share, but inflict his pain on me. It didn't feel good, to say the least, but I understand. I truly hope it made him feel better, though it likely did not. I hope someday he develops better coping mechanisms than unkind words and copious amounts of mind-numbing substance. I have no control over that. Everyone has their choices to make and crosses to bear - I sure as hell have mine.
I've never really thought much about the connection before.
This world is full of unfortunate incidents: people die, people get hurt, people do bad things. The world is also full of wonderful things and in my opinion, I see so many more of those. At least that's what I try to see.
We all have instances of loss in our lives and people deal with them in different ways.
Fortunately and unfortunately, I'm in an industry where my job is to report news.
A car accident where the driver ends up dead is news. It's unfortunate, and if I had control over the world, I'd never report it because it would never happen.
When these things happen, people are continually looking for answers. My job is to communicate those answers as factually and responsibly as humanly possible. Many avenues are used to get to this point (police reports, fire reports, etc.) I do believe there are problems in the journalism industry - too much sensationalism sometimes, which can cause desensitization.
We're coming upon the eighth anniversary of 9/11, and I'll never forget the first time I saw footage of an airplane crashing into a building. Now,due to incessant replays of the tragic incident, it's so much a part of our lives that it doesn't even seem real. Occasionally we journalists who are trying to find balance between respect and news get grief because of the sensationalists out there.
This weekend there was a tragic car accident. From the time I heard about it, I felt sick about it. It wasn't someone I was close friends with, but a human life just the same. He lived a hard, fast life with many hinderences. Some would argue these hinderences were his own fault - I believe accidents are called accidents for a reason. No one sets out to lose the use of their legs, or hurt their friends, or wrap their cars around trees - NO ONE. He is someone's son, someone's sibling and someone's friend. No one can ever take their grief away.
Out of grief, I'm sure, one of his friends made the decision to send me a nasty note.
This is where the giving grief comes in. This friend took his grief and, instead of dealing with it, felt the need to, not only share, but inflict his pain on me. It didn't feel good, to say the least, but I understand. I truly hope it made him feel better, though it likely did not. I hope someday he develops better coping mechanisms than unkind words and copious amounts of mind-numbing substance. I have no control over that. Everyone has their choices to make and crosses to bear - I sure as hell have mine.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
oh the trombone!
A facebook message sent to me from a great friend:
The trombone is, in my view, the real leader among the class of wind instruments I have described as epic. It possesses to the highest degree nobility and grandeur. It commands all the accents, grave or powerful, of high musical poetry, from imposing and calm religious tones to the frenzied clamour of an orgy.
The composer may at will make it sing a chorus of priests, threaten, utter a subdued lament, whisper a funeral dirge, raise a hymn of glory, break out in dreadful cries, or sound its formidable call for the awakening of the dead or the death of the living. (From Berlioz's "Treatise on Orchestration")
The trombone is, in my view, the real leader among the class of wind instruments I have described as epic. It possesses to the highest degree nobility and grandeur. It commands all the accents, grave or powerful, of high musical poetry, from imposing and calm religious tones to the frenzied clamour of an orgy.
The composer may at will make it sing a chorus of priests, threaten, utter a subdued lament, whisper a funeral dirge, raise a hymn of glory, break out in dreadful cries, or sound its formidable call for the awakening of the dead or the death of the living. (From Berlioz's "Treatise on Orchestration")
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It's my time
I, like my fellow blogging friend, should be using this as a tool to promote the Dooryard Arts Festival in Woodstock from Aug. 12-16 sure to capture the hearts and minds of anyone and everyone - but I won't encourage people to take in concerts by Ross Neilsen and the Singing Bridge Orchestra, visual displays by Jody Coughlin, Jody Denny and other people not named Jody, outdoor workshops and much, much more in this blog.
Nor will I use it to direct people to Friday's edition of the Bugle-Observer, which can be found at www.canadaeast.com, where the paper features a front-page story regarding 702 Main and a column by RiVA's own Amy Anderson.
I actually need to write about a journey I'm embarking on.
A few mind-altering things happened to me recently regarding my health.
I was walking to the bar the other night, and my lower back hurt so much I had to stop and lie down to stretch it out.
I knew it was because of my weight.
It's something I've struggled with for a very long time. In the last two years, I hadn't gained (nor lost) any weight since moving to Woodstock. I ate poorly much of the time, but I walked every day.
Since starting my new job (and getting a car), I've starting eating more poorly than ever before (think fast-food drive-thrus) and I've used my wheels to propel me around town.
I knew I had put on weight since the last time I checked - but I had no idea how much.
My high estimate was 10 pounds...I was wrong.
The last time I went pants shopping, I was up a size, it made me feel ill, but I still was ok.
It was the horrendous pain in my back that through me over the edge, and forced me to take a stand.
I, despite an exceptionally busy schedule, managed to make time to attend a weight watchers meeting.
It was inevitable, I was going to have to step on a scale - something I hadn't done in at least six months. I was not looking forward to it. The last time I checked, I was dangerously close to a very scary number.
Not only had I reached the frightening poundage, I had exceeded.
I nearly broke into tears in front of a room of people. But I didn't.
I stayed for the entire meeting and listened to what they had to say.
It was really great, and I have been sticking to my points all week. Already I feel better.
I played a show tonight with the Singing Bridge Orchestra, who incidentally will be playing at the Elks Club on Wed., Aug. 12, as part of dooryard arts, and felt more like dancing and really got into singing and playing the trombone. More than I have in quite sometime.
A few days will tell how successful I've been...it feels great to be taking a stand.
Nor will I use it to direct people to Friday's edition of the Bugle-Observer, which can be found at www.canadaeast.com, where the paper features a front-page story regarding 702 Main and a column by RiVA's own Amy Anderson.
I actually need to write about a journey I'm embarking on.
A few mind-altering things happened to me recently regarding my health.
I was walking to the bar the other night, and my lower back hurt so much I had to stop and lie down to stretch it out.
I knew it was because of my weight.
It's something I've struggled with for a very long time. In the last two years, I hadn't gained (nor lost) any weight since moving to Woodstock. I ate poorly much of the time, but I walked every day.
Since starting my new job (and getting a car), I've starting eating more poorly than ever before (think fast-food drive-thrus) and I've used my wheels to propel me around town.
I knew I had put on weight since the last time I checked - but I had no idea how much.
My high estimate was 10 pounds...I was wrong.
The last time I went pants shopping, I was up a size, it made me feel ill, but I still was ok.
It was the horrendous pain in my back that through me over the edge, and forced me to take a stand.
I, despite an exceptionally busy schedule, managed to make time to attend a weight watchers meeting.
It was inevitable, I was going to have to step on a scale - something I hadn't done in at least six months. I was not looking forward to it. The last time I checked, I was dangerously close to a very scary number.
Not only had I reached the frightening poundage, I had exceeded.
I nearly broke into tears in front of a room of people. But I didn't.
I stayed for the entire meeting and listened to what they had to say.
It was really great, and I have been sticking to my points all week. Already I feel better.
I played a show tonight with the Singing Bridge Orchestra, who incidentally will be playing at the Elks Club on Wed., Aug. 12, as part of dooryard arts, and felt more like dancing and really got into singing and playing the trombone. More than I have in quite sometime.
A few days will tell how successful I've been...it feels great to be taking a stand.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A lot about livin' and a little 'bout love
I'm writing this in response to a note that a friend recently posted on Facebook. It alleged that white people cannot dance, particularly Canadians. In this note, my friend referenced his first dancing experience, and his most recent. It made me nostalgic for the days of Junior High School Much Music Video Dances.
They cost at least two dollars more than a regular dance; however, it was SO worth it - especially in Grade 7. Everyone, and I mean everyone, even the cool ninth graders came out to the video dance. It was what student party night is to university students to the 12-15 year old teenagers at Quispamsis Junior High.
It was 1995, so some of the pretty and popular Grade 9 girls would wear loose-fitting, low-cut jeans, with their Calvin Klein underwear sticking out of the top. Looking back, I'm not sure if that was actually stylish, or if the girls were just proud to be wearing something designed by Calvin Klein and felt the need to show off. Most of us simply wore our green, burgundy or black Club Monaco sweatshirts. I don't think there was anything special about it, except for the name, but it cost over $40. Oh to be a slave to fashion.
I remember learning the macerena at this time, and a dance to Saturday Night by Whigfield if I'm not mistaken. Girls (and a few brave boys) would line up, side by side, and engage in these synchronized dance moves, mimicking what we'd see on the screen. Oh how wonderful we thought we were (actually, we only pretended to think we were wonderful - I know I didn't actually feel like I was). Then, IT happened. IT being the inevitable slow dance. How laughable we must have been to our teacher chaperons, or worse, the MUCH MUSIC video dance CREW!!! I'm sure they'd do it on purpose...play a Celine Dion song, or worse, November Rain...
Girls would quickly separate from their friends - their eyes darting wildly around the room - hoping and praying to see him. Oh yes, HIM. The lights are flashing, couples are starting to form, like a bees nestling on flowers - fear and dread take over, you see other girls, weaker girls, running to the bathroom in agony...their ever-comforting best friend close behind (only because no one asked her to dance either).
And then you see him, and, no, he wasn't your first choice, or your eleventh - but he wasn't dancing with anyone else...so you move in...the song's already two minutes in (but that's fine since November Rain is nearly ten minutes long).
"Ummmm....will you dance with me," you say with a quiver in your voice.
He agrees. THANK YOU GOD!
And so it begins...
THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE. Your arms are stretched as far as they'll reach, just to gently place them on his shoulders - his arms are also outstretched, to nervously place them on your waist (likely leaving a sweat mark on your brand new, olive green Club Monaco sweatshirt). There is room for at least one other person to slide in between the two of you...but it's magical.
Thoughts involve, "ooh, I wonder who's watching...oh my god, I'm three inches taller than him...his hands are really sweaty...Oh my god, Mr. Wilson's watching, totally embarassing."
Of course they don't play the extended version of the song...you awkwardly part ways with your dance partner...and it's off to do the Cotton Eyed Joe dance.
"Where did you come from, where did you go..."
Now, nearly 15 years later, it takes every amount of will power that I have to not launch into those familiar dances when I hear the songs associated with them (let's face it, I totally still do the dances). I may even haul out the running man or the shopping cart...
Many white people may not be able to dance with any sort of validity; however, we've mastered the art of making people laugh through our intricate, popular moves. There has to be something to say for that...right? maybe? err....LONG LIVE THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE (and thank you Mark Monroe for being taller than me in Grade 7 and dancing with me once at a Much Music Video Dance in 1995).
They cost at least two dollars more than a regular dance; however, it was SO worth it - especially in Grade 7. Everyone, and I mean everyone, even the cool ninth graders came out to the video dance. It was what student party night is to university students to the 12-15 year old teenagers at Quispamsis Junior High.
It was 1995, so some of the pretty and popular Grade 9 girls would wear loose-fitting, low-cut jeans, with their Calvin Klein underwear sticking out of the top. Looking back, I'm not sure if that was actually stylish, or if the girls were just proud to be wearing something designed by Calvin Klein and felt the need to show off. Most of us simply wore our green, burgundy or black Club Monaco sweatshirts. I don't think there was anything special about it, except for the name, but it cost over $40. Oh to be a slave to fashion.
I remember learning the macerena at this time, and a dance to Saturday Night by Whigfield if I'm not mistaken. Girls (and a few brave boys) would line up, side by side, and engage in these synchronized dance moves, mimicking what we'd see on the screen. Oh how wonderful we thought we were (actually, we only pretended to think we were wonderful - I know I didn't actually feel like I was). Then, IT happened. IT being the inevitable slow dance. How laughable we must have been to our teacher chaperons, or worse, the MUCH MUSIC video dance CREW!!! I'm sure they'd do it on purpose...play a Celine Dion song, or worse, November Rain...
Girls would quickly separate from their friends - their eyes darting wildly around the room - hoping and praying to see him. Oh yes, HIM. The lights are flashing, couples are starting to form, like a bees nestling on flowers - fear and dread take over, you see other girls, weaker girls, running to the bathroom in agony...their ever-comforting best friend close behind (only because no one asked her to dance either).
And then you see him, and, no, he wasn't your first choice, or your eleventh - but he wasn't dancing with anyone else...so you move in...the song's already two minutes in (but that's fine since November Rain is nearly ten minutes long).
"Ummmm....will you dance with me," you say with a quiver in your voice.
He agrees. THANK YOU GOD!
And so it begins...
THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE. Your arms are stretched as far as they'll reach, just to gently place them on his shoulders - his arms are also outstretched, to nervously place them on your waist (likely leaving a sweat mark on your brand new, olive green Club Monaco sweatshirt). There is room for at least one other person to slide in between the two of you...but it's magical.
Thoughts involve, "ooh, I wonder who's watching...oh my god, I'm three inches taller than him...his hands are really sweaty...Oh my god, Mr. Wilson's watching, totally embarassing."
Of course they don't play the extended version of the song...you awkwardly part ways with your dance partner...and it's off to do the Cotton Eyed Joe dance.
"Where did you come from, where did you go..."
Now, nearly 15 years later, it takes every amount of will power that I have to not launch into those familiar dances when I hear the songs associated with them (let's face it, I totally still do the dances). I may even haul out the running man or the shopping cart...
Many white people may not be able to dance with any sort of validity; however, we've mastered the art of making people laugh through our intricate, popular moves. There has to be something to say for that...right? maybe? err....LONG LIVE THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE (and thank you Mark Monroe for being taller than me in Grade 7 and dancing with me once at a Much Music Video Dance in 1995).
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