Asking for what I want.

I have to thank Nosinkmolly this morning. I was unsure of what I was going to write and then I read Molly's comment on my blog yesterday, Rudeness. Thanks Molly!


She asks, "Should there be a difference in the way we ask for what we want when dealing with strangers or people we are close to? And what do we do if we are afraid to ask or stand up for ourselves."

For me, it has always been difficult to ask for what I want, even though one of my father's favourite sayings was, "Ask for what you want. You've got at least a 50 percent chance of getting a yes."

Problem was, I also had a voice in my head that said, "Don't make waves."

Because the actions of the adults around me were often contradictory with their words, asking for what I wanted became a risky business fraught with opportunities to be ridiculed, shut-down, or simply ignored.

And so, I learned to become quietly manipulative. If I wanted something I couched my 'ask' beneath the veil of subterfuge -- you know, that inverted way of asking that wasn't direct enough to get me in trouble, but ended up giving me sort of what I wanted without having to come right out and ask for it. Funny, I remember men in my past often telling me I was manipulative -- guess what? I never believed them! What? Me? Manipulative?

And yet, I was. Because, in my non requests, I was undermining the relationship by not being honest and forthright in my conversations.

It takes time to undo a lifetime of stifling my 'honesty'. In my family of origin, honesty was not big on the agenda. An honest response to "How are you today?" could have left me at risk of being mocked because, had I replied with anything other than the equivalent of, "Happy", the ensuing lecture would have left me feeling wrong for feeling how I was feeling.

Children are inherently honest. They learn through adult's responses whether or not their honesty is acceptable, or not. In many instances, the 'or not' becomes de rigeur.

I remember once when my youngest daughter was about four, we saw an older woman in the grocery store whose face resembled that of a chimpanzee. Liseanne, looked at the woman, and said, "Mommy. That lady looks like George the inquisitive monkey!"

I quickly hushed her, distracting her with some sort of treat while I smiled at the woman and said, "Oh, she says that to everyone."

Imagine Liseanne's confusion. She saw a woman who resembled a character in one of her favourite books and her mother lied to cover up the truth. Truth is, she didn't say that to everyone. Just this woman who did look remarkably like George, the inquisitive monkey.

I did talk to her when we got home about the importance of keeping some of our thoughts to ourselves. "But mommy. I like George. He's funny," she replied.

Learning how to speak up and ask for what I want has been a continual journey of unravelling my childhood voice that is filled with the fear of speaking up. It has been a constant struggle to determine, 'what is my truth?' versus, 'what's important here?"

I still struggle with speaking my truth -- especially in my close relationships. My mind dances around my fear, pitter-pattering in my heart, tiptoeing around my aversion to making waves, whispering all sorts of messages about why I best not do or say something.

If it's a really important discussion, like my wanting to talk to C.C. about smoking, I have to write out my thoughts first -- 1. What's important to me around this issue? 2. Why is it important to me? 3. How do I begin the conversation so that I create a safe space for both of us to be heard? 4. When the going gets rough, how do I bring us back to that safe space so that the conversation doesn't get diverted into opposing sides drawing a line in the sand with the only smoke in the room puffing out of our ears as our tempers steam over?

One of the biggest issues for me, just like the Runaway Bride, is to determine, What is my truth?

That's why speaking up in the coffee shop is important to me. Molly is right -- I will probably never see those people again. What's the risk? In speaking up I was building up my 'truth' muscle. I was practicing 'truth speaking'.

See, I spoke up. The woman was annoyed with me. I didn't die. A big hole didn't open up in the ground and swallow me up whole. Her annoyance is hers to deal with.

What I have to deal with are my runaway thoughts. You know, that conversation in the head that goes like this... 'oh my god, I was rude. I shouldn't have spoken up. She'll hate me forever. She's going to leave here and spend her day telling people about this rude woman who accosted her in a coffee shop, a public place of all places, and told her to shut up....'

Ultimately, it was just a moment in time. A passing moment in which I lived up to my commitment to be fearless. And in that moment, I created the opportunity for me to practice my voice, to test its tonsure without risking more than a look of disdain from a stranger.

That practice helps me in speaking up in my intimate relationships -- and gives me a guide in how to do it better each time. Truth is, when speaking up doesn't come naturally, using strangers as my testing ground is safer than creating havoc in my family!

In the end, it takes practice, patience and a commitment to being my loving self, in every kind of weather to learn how to speak my truth.

And it takes learning -- I've read several books that have helped me. One of the best which I'm reading right now is Crucial Conversations by Kerry Patterson et al, (McGraw Hill 2002). It provides, "Tools for talking when stakes are high."

For me, learning how to speak up when my head is saying, shut up! is a constant journey of fearlessly turning up for me, acknowledging my truth with loving care and staying unattached to the outcome.

The question is: Are you willing to step into your fear and be heard? Are you willing to shut off the chatter in your head so your heart can lead you fearlessly into loving yourself enough to ask for what you want?

Rudeness on both sides of the street.

I was having coffee with a girlfriend when our conversation was interrupted by a woman's voice. It was loud and grating. She wasn't speaking to us, but to the man sitting at the table on the other side of us. She was waiting to pick up her coffee at the counter which was just beside our table, in between her and the man she was yelling to.

My friend and I tried to continue our conversation but it was hard. The woman's voice was too loud, too raucous, too invasive. Finally, after we'd both commented that it was distracting, I turned to the woman and asked, "Excuse me, it's very hard for us to have a conversation with you speaking above our heads. Would you mind going over to the table to talk to the gentlemen?"

The woman paused, looked at me and said, "This is a public space. Deal with it."

"Yes, it is," I replied. "That's why it's important to respect the rights of everyone in it."

The woman huffed, looked at the man she was yelling to, rolled her eyes and quit talking. I achieved my goal -- not sure how gracefully.

Later, on my way home, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few necessitites for the dinner party C.C. and I were having last night. As I loaded my groceries into the back of my car, a young man came up, leaned into the back of my car. He pointed to my wallet in my left hand and asked, "Can you spare some money so I can get a piece of pizza?"

Now, I don't give to pan-handlers. I work in an agency that supports homeless individuals. For me, giving to pan-handlers is counter-intuitive. It reinforces two things, 1) the thought that all someone is worth is to ask strangers for money, and that's okay; and 2) I work hard for my money. I contribute daily at the place where I work, both as an employee and as a volunteer. I know there are lots of facilities for people to go to for food. Pan-handling is not a necessity. It's not something I support.

"I don't give to pan-handlers," I told him.

He motioned towards my groceries, "How about giving me some food?"

I thought about his question. "I just bought these groceries for my family," I replied. I looked at the bag of nacho chips. I could give him that bag, I thought. But he didn't give me a chance to even consider it further.

"F*** you. You're lucky you've got a family." And he walked off, his body rigid with anger as he approached the next car where a man and woman were loading their groceries.

He was right. I am lucky and blessed to have a family to buy groceries for, to come home to, to share meals with, to share laughter with.

What struck me with both these incidents was the rude behaviour. It didn't matter what side of the street -- both parties were oblivious to my rights to also share in public space without being hassled, or condemned, for stating my boundaries.

The fact the woman was incensed I asked her to carry on her conversation in a way that respected others, is not my 'issue'. I'm proud of me for having the courage to ask for what I wanted and to speak up about her behaviour.

The fact the pan-handler was angry that I wouldn't give him money or food, is also not my issue. I am proud of me for having the courage to tell the truth when asked to give him money.

It's a challenge. To not give-in, to not give.

When the woman's conversation first started interfering with ours, I wanted to just ignore her, to sit with my friend and role my eyes and grumble, just loud enough for her to hear, that she was rude. I chose not to complain but to draw her attention to how her behaviour was affecting the world around her. For me, that's a huge difference than what would have happened in the past. In the past, I would have silently bore her rudeness and seethed inwardly about how stupid, inconsiderate, yada yada yada, she was. Yesterday, I chose to respectfully ask for what I wanted, and to let go of an expectation that she would see it my way.

When the pan-handler came up to my car, I was tempted to give him money. I knew I had coins in my wallet. I knew I could afford it. But that isn't the issue for me. The issue for me is I don't give to pan-handlers, not because I don't want to help, I do. I don't give to pan-handlers because it's my choice. It is a personal choice. And no one has the right to judge me on my choice. If he chooses to pan-handle, that's his choice. I don't condemn him, or call him out for making that choice. I don't have to play into his choice by compromising mine.

I believe it is our responsibility to treat each other with decency and respect. I believe we each have the right to respectfully state our boundaries, and our needs.

And, as yesterday demonstration, we can be rude on any side of the street. The important thing for me is to not cross over.

The question is: Are you willing to stand up for your rights and ask for what you want?

Making a difference

"Live life fully while you're here. Experience everything. Take care of yourself and your friends. Have fun, be crazy, be weird. Go out and screw up! You're going to anyway, so you might as well enjoy the process. Take the opportunity to learn from your mistakes: find the cause of your problem and eliminate it. Don't try to be perfect; just be an excellent example of being human.” Anthony Robbins

Yesterday, my eldest daughter, Alexis, and I had a talk about 'making a difference'. It is a term I hear often from volunteers who come into the homeless shelter where I work.

"I just want to make a difference," they inevitably say when asked, "What brought you here?"

It is perhaps, one of the greatest struggles of our clients. They don't believe they make a difference to anyone let alone have the capacity to make a difference in their own lives.

For most of our clients, the mistakes they've made in their lives, the mishaps that have tripped them up have brought them so far down they've lost the belief they have the power to change their direction, or that getting up will make any difference to their lives.

Like me, my daughters share in an innate desire to change the world. I don't think I consciously passed along my desire to create a world of change, but after listening to my daughter, I realized, I have.

Most of my life I have wanted to 'make a difference'. Even as a little girl I wanted to change the world. In discussions around the dining room table about world events, I inevitably took the side of the underdog -- who would protect them amongst the vociferous voices calling them down, calling them out to stand up and get a life? I believed it was up to me, my job, my purpose.

It is a belief I have quietly carried most of my life. Quietly carried because it was one I began to fear in its expression. What did it mean to 'want to make a difference'? What was the difference I was making?

Marian Wright Edelman said, "We must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee."

Years ago, I wrote and produced a play with a group of street teens. Ten years later, I ran into one of those young actors at a business meeting. He gave me a big hug and proceeded to thank me for making such a difference in his life. He is now married, working, has a home of his own, two kids and a dog. "Because of you my life is way different than it would have been had I continued in the direction I was going," he said.

At the time I wrote the play and struggled to get it produced, I didn't know what difference I was making. I just knew I wanted to give these kids a chance to tell their story, to speak up for themselves and find their voice.

On May 21, 2003 when I was released from the abusive relationship that was killing me, (visit my website to find out more) I didn't know what to do to make a difference in my life. I just knew I had to do something different if I was to heal. I didn't feel like I made a difference, but, believed different was possible if I kept taking baby-steps away from the past and into the possibilities of my today.

To keep myself inspired, I reminded myself of things I'd done in the past that made a difference, in my life, or in the lives of those I loved or those I worked with. Because I had forgotten (and lost) who I was, I needed to find those touchstones that said, remember -- you did this, you were capable of that, you achieved this. If I could do it then, I could do it again -- it just took conviction, commitment and a ceaseless desire to heal. Writing that play was a significant touchstone for me. Not only did it change the lives of the kids I worked with, it changed my life, then and when I needed the memory most.

Sometimes, we don't know what the difference is we make until someone reminds us that in what we did or said, they found hope, strength, encouragement, inspiration.

To make a difference, we have to accept that what we do is enough. Being our most magnificent selves doesn't mean climbing mountains, jumping tall buildings, and putting out forest fires all in one breath. It means accepting the difference between hope and despair or love and indifference, is felt in how we live this moment. When we live it with fiery passion, never letting the flame of our belief in our magnificence be extinguished, we make a difference.

There are enough people in this world who would have us believe life is a senseless journey with little purpose other than to struggle from cradle to grave.

Life is a passionate journey of love.

Life it up. Live large. Live it for all you're worth. And, as Anthony Robbins suggests, keep taking chances, keep turning your mistakes into wonderful lessons of living life fearlessly.

The question is: Are you struggling to find your purpose? Do you use fear of making a difference as the reason for not being the difference you want to make?

Living my highest intentions

Today is Parade morning. The Calgary Stampede begins to roll through downtown streets as hundred of spectators line the avenues to watch -- The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth come to life.

Today, I'm happy in the quiet of my home. C.C. and Liseanne are still asleep. The puppies are fed and walked and life unfolds with aplomb.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Let me make it my best day yet.

Hugh Prather, 70s iconic writer and 'philosopher' wrote, "Live as if everything you do will eventually be known."

Dale Carnegie said to speak of everyone as if they are in the room with you.

What would I do differently today if everything I do is 'known' by the world? What would I not do? Waht am I doing? Where do I speak of others as if they're not there? As if they can't hear my gossip. My non-supportive words, or my supportive words? Wher am I living my life as if it doesn't make a difference, as if I don't matter and what I do is not important?

We live in a universe where everything is connected to everything. What can I do today that connects me in powerful and positive ways to the world around me? How can I live my highest intentions and be the light that casts away the dark of my world, leading me through my magnificence?

The question is: What about you? What can you do that speaks to your highest intention to celebrate your magnificent, to live in the light of your wonder?

Who are we kidding?

When my eldest daughter was in grade one, she came home from school distraught about the behaviour of a couple of boys in her class.

"They keep flipping up my skirt and trying to pull my panties down," she cried. "They try to do it to all the girls who wear skirts."

I was incensed. I marched into the school the next morning and spoke with the Administrator.

Upon hearing what the boys were up to, she replied, "Oh. That's just boys being boys. There's no harm."

I began to sputter. "Excuse me? No harm? It's wrong. It makes my daughter cry. Is that okay?"

She shrugged. "It's not okay. But we can't make them stop being boys. Rather than crying, maybe your daughter should learn how to stand up for herself."

"Perfect," I replied. "I'll tell her to grab the next boy who flips her skirt up by the balls and squeeze."

"That wouldn't be okay," replied the Administrator.

"Maybe not. But it definitely would get his attention and yours too."

Boys grow into men. Boys who do not respect girls grow into men who do not respect women.

Yesterday, I read the Bad Date Sheet published each month by a local non-profit that works at harm reduction for sex-trade workers. The Sheet is meant to advise street workers about men who are violent with their dates by providing a description of each incident and man involved.

I was incensed, furious actually, as I read about some of the things that these girls have endured in the line of their business. Rape. Being forced to have sex at knife-point. Having guns pulled on them. Beaten and left naked in remote industrial areas of the city -- often because she requests payment for services rendered.

One man, and I use the term 'man' hesitantly as I do not want to offend the real men out there, picked up his 'date' in the downtown core. There was a large dog in the back seat. He drove to a remote spot they had not agreed upon. She complained. He hit her. He was large. Overpowering. He locked the car doors and threatened to kill her if she didn't have sex with him and then his dog. She refused. He beat her and dumped her battered body in a ditch.

She lived to tell the story. She lived to turn another trick. Her description of the man is very vague. Girls don't look at their dates. They don't want to connect to their eyes. They don't want to give them any chance to see inside their minds, to see what little of their spirit they have preserved beneath the degradation of being a 'ho'.

Perhaps the men who beat and rape their 'dates' never flipped a girls skirt and pulled her pants down, but somewhere in their journey from grade school to degrading behaviours, they never learned about respect. About decency. About treating human beings with dignity. They never learned they had value. They never learned they could make a choice other than to overpower helpless women surviving on the avails of prostitution.

Girls don't become prostitutes because their parents told them, "This is a fabulous career honey. I think you'd be terrific at it. It's a lifestyle you'll enjoy."

Girls become prostitutes because of supply and demand. Their bodies are the commodity and there's an endless supply of men demanding their wares. Often, girls step into the trade because a man tells them they must. She calls him Darren, or Paul, or Simon. His real name is 'Pimp'. He tells her he loves her. He's the only one who does he tells her as he pulls her away from family, friends, anyone who might be able to tell her the truth. Can't you do this one thing for me, just this once, honey? Please? I need the money and my buddy offered $2,000 to sleep with you, just once. You know I love you. Look at all I've done for you, given you. Just this once can't you do it for me? It's just sex. It doesn't affect our love. That's forever after.

She believes him. Believes he loves her, forever after. Believes it's just 'sex'. And it is. Just sex. But it's sex at the cost of her life, her dignity, her spirit, her grace. It's sex that traps her into a life she never could imagine. Love, his love, her love. That's just part of his game. And in playing, she forfeits her soul and her freedom. Sure, she uses drugs. Who wouldn't if night after night you had to stand on the street, or wait in a hotel room for men to come and spill their spoil into your body as you moan in ecstasy and call him, Baby and tell him lies he needs to hear to believe he is 'the man'.

I read the Bad Date Sheet yesterday and thought of those boys who flipped my daughter's skirt when she was in Grade One. What lesson did the schools condoning of their actions send them? What did they learn about girls? About authority? About superiority?

My daughter quit wearing skirts to school after that. I quit trusting 'the Administration' to have the best interests of my child at heart and began teaching her and her sister about their rights as human beings.

It's a long road. We're women in a world where some men believe it's okay to take a date to a deserted parking lot, rape her and dump her. We're women in a world where pundits call for the legalization of prostitution. "It's one of the oldest professions," they spout. "We're not going to stop it. Let's at least make it safer by making it legal."

Safer? What is safe about a man called 'John' who uses your body and then sometimes pays, sometimes not? What is safe about spreading your legs for a few coins that will buy you your next fix, or perhaps feed your kids because prostitution is the only trade you've ever learned?

Who loses? Definitely the girls. But also, the mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Aunts and Uncles. Those whose daughters and siblings and nieces step off the street into a stranger's car in order to fulfill on his needs.

We lose. Society. Us. You. Me. Our neighbours. We lose because in the act of legalizing prostitution we legalize the subjugation of women. We make it okay for men to have their sexual needs fulfilled at the expense of another human being. We lose because we make it all about the need of man to not have to control his urges in ways that show respect to every human being.

So, this isn't one of my inspiring posts this morning. I'll have calmed down by tomorrow. I'll be less strident. Less vocal. And in my silence, who will speak out for these girls? Who will speak up for these victims?

This morning I'm angry. I'm upset. I'm saddened by the hypocrisy of a world that makes it okay for girls to sell their bodies -- as long as nobody gets hurt.

The question is: Who are we kidding?

The game of life.

In my youth, I always figured golf was a game for middle-aged old farts who couldn't dance around a tennis court any longer, or were too lame to go hiking.

So, what was I doing, golf club in hand, swinging at a little white ball hiding in the grass? I'm not middle aged. I'm not too old to chase a tennis ball and I'm not too lame to hike! Oops. Wrong! I haven't played tennis for 20 years since a serious case of tennis elbow followed by bursitis put my right elbow out of the game. I can still hike but I've given up climbing mountains. I don't need to stand on top of a peak to get my highs. Life does that for me every day!

Suddenly, walking sedately around a golf course has appeal!

Franklin Adams wrote, "Years ago we discovered the exact point, the dead center of middle age. It occurs when you are too young to take up golf and too old to rush to the net."

Guess I must be middle aged.

Middle aged? How can that be? I dash to the mirror as fast as my varicose veins will support me. Who am I trying to kid? I have a head full of grey hair streaking through my black faster than a streaker at a football game evading the security guards.

Streaker you ask? Who remembers streakers? Mostly just us middle aged farts who remember a time when streakers were de rigeur at any large gathering of folk! Way back when in the seventies when our bodies were fit and lithe with nary a sag or wrinkle bearing down with gravities pull.

Actually, it's not the aging that's getting to me. It's the having to eat some of my words. They're choking me on the bile of blind youth's chatter about never growing old, about never giving up on my ideals, about never being like all them other old folks over there who have stagnated in the blissful youth of never giving up on being young! You know, the old lady with the spidered legs strutting around on stiletto's, wearing a mini-skirt only her teen age granddaughter should be sporting! Or the guy over there, the one with the comb-over. That twenty-something can't be his wife can she? Oh my. She is! Which means, the baby in the stroller is his son!

To know how to grow old is the master-work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living. Henri Amiel

I'm into a life of continuous learning. Guess it's time to take up the art of aging gracefully and learn how to become a creator of master-works of wisdom that reflect my age.

Rather than balking at the prospect of aging, (it is inevitable!), I've decided to take it one step at a time, one day at a glance. It's time to stop running helter-skelter into the dawn of a new day, grasping at straws in the hopes that this one will bring me happiness. It's time to accept the happiness I feel being me, exactly the way I am, right where I'm at, grey hairs and all.

Golf great, Arnold Palmer, said, “The most rewarding things you do in life are often the ones that look like they cannot be done.”

I always thought I would never play golf. I also believed growing old was a choice.

Time to let go of fear of change and accept the changes all around and within me.

Time to quit resisting the greener side of life. I'm not being put to pasture! I'm taking up the call to live it up with joie de vivre where ever I'm at, whatever my age. And in my wisdom, I know how to act my age with fun and laughter filling in the blanks of every page.

C.C. was right. Golf is for winners. And I'm a winner! Time to pick up the golf club and really learn how to play this game that some call, the game of life!

The question is: What are you resisting? Your age or the thought of giving up where you were at yesterday to step fearlessly into where you're at today?

I am Canadian

We Canadians live in a blind spot about our identity. We have very strong feelings about who we aren't but only weak ones about who we are. We're passionate about what we don't want to become but oddly passive about what we should be.

John Cruickshank (in McLean's Magazine)

I am Canadian.

Today is Canada Day! A day for fireworks and celebration. A day to give thanks for my Canadian identity -- whatever it is.

When I was in my teens we lived in a small town in southern Germany. It was a Canadian Forces base and we were invited guests on sovereign soil. Soil that belonged to a land of Teutonic origins. Guttural. Harsh. Steeped in a proud history of conquerors and vanquished. The language reflected the German spirit. Fierce. Defensive. Stoic. Proud.

In total I spent fifteen years of my life living on foreign soils. Neither of my parents were Canadian born. Displaced. Dispersed, my family history pulls the threads of nationhood into a multi-hued mosaic reflective of Trudeau's dream of a tapestry of colour made up of nationalities from across the globe.

Like my peers, whenever I travelled and someone stated, "You are American," I would vehemently respond, "No! I am Canadian." Inevitably, my inquisitor would shrug their shoulders and mutter under their breath, "Same thing." And I would launch into a discourse of why being Canadian was different.

It was always a vague and fuzzy dialogue. "We sing God Save the Queen because the British Monarch is our Head of State. Our flag is red and white and has a maple leaf on it not little stars and stripes. We have a Prime Minister and a parliament and we're not as big. At least not in people. We're nicer. Yup. Definitely nicer. We don't...." And then I would begin to list the things we don't do and who we aren't as Canadians.

"We're not pushy like the Americans. We don't believe we rule the world. We don't try to force our culture on yours like the yanks and we do things differently than them. We don't always just follow."

"Like when?" they would ask.

"Ummm. You know. We harboured draft dodgers who didn't want to fight in Viet Nam."

"Oh, so you betrayed your neighbour's trust?"

"Oh no. It wasn't like that. We just didn't want to make a fuss about the Viet Nam war. We, um, didn't really take a side. It just wasn't our battle."

"So, you sat on the fence."

"I didn't. I disagree with war. Any war. It was our government. They didn't want to take sides."

"Well, you're taking sides here. Being in Germany. You're only here because Germany lost the war. You took a side then."

"Yes, well that was different. That war was necessary."

"So, war's okay as long as you're on the winning side?"

"I didn't say that! I meant we were invited here. It's part of our responsibility to NATO."

"Who invited you?"

"Um. I don't know?.... You?"

And so it went. My Canadian identity was founded upon a hodgepodge of metaphors and altruism, unfounded beliefs I had never assessed, principles I couldn't stand up for and values I didn't know how to express.

I am Canadian.

Liberated. Free.

I have the right to vote and the freedom to express my opinion without fearing for my life.

I drive on the right side of the road. I have a car. I have a home. I have a job that I love. I have the right to oppose my government. I have the right to speak out.

I don't carry a gun. I carry a passport that promises me safe passage anywhere in the world I choose to go.

Because, as a Canadian I have choice.

Being Canadian is not about not being American. Being Canadian is about claiming my right to live in a country where tolerance and justice share equal voice with compassion and the right to a fair defence.

We don't have the death penalty in Canada. I'm proud of that.

And, as we seem to lose more and more of what makes us different than being American, I fear the loss of safety on our streets. I fear the loss of freedom in our schools.

As we become more 'politically correct', I fear the loss of Santa Claus and O Canada in our schools. I am Canadian and I am proud to celebrate Christmas and Easter. I am proud my neighbour is free to celebrate Hanukkah or Ramadan.

I am Canadian means I live in a land where the tapestry of nations woven together in our vast and varied lands creates a rich and vibrant world of colour. Stitched together across a land where every voice is equal.

I am Canadian and I stand proud before the Maple Leaf, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren, no matter our skin colour, no matter our belief as we sing loud and clear, "O Canada, my home and native land."

And then I realize in my oh so Canadian conscience that the very words of our national anthem deny the truth of one-third of our population who do not claim Canada as their 'native land'.

Oh dear. Best we change the words so everyone feels they belong in this amazing land called Canada.

I am Canadian.