Rally for Code Red

What happens when our attitudes become unionized? What happens when fighting the good fight becomes more important than the outcome?

I was at the Hamilton Spectator for the Code Red 2.0 presentation on Wednesday. I was very moved by many of the speakers, by their understanding and compassion and willingness to take an unpopular stand, find answers, forge a new path.

I noticed that it wasn’t a recap of any sort. No one said “Here’s what we’ve done in the last year,” (which is plenty) and I’m ok with that, cause lots of people work tirelessly all the time.  I noticed that no one said “Here’s what we’re going to do now,” and I’m ok with that cause I think the work involves all of us, and is not about “them” fixing “us”. So while I was emotionally affected by the evening and came away feeling as if Hamilton was in good hands, my mind kept asking, “What was this?”

And I realized, this was what it needed to be: another step toward building consensus among all of our leaders and all of us that these issues are priorities and need to be addressed. It was a call for help to you and me to make sure our representatives at every level know that we care, that the health of our communities matters and that broken systems need to be fixed. And I was ok with that, because the alternative might be more of the same solutions, and more of the same problems.

On my way out, someone remarked at the irony of a panel of privileged, white, men who were addressing an issue that is, by the numbers, about women, about minorities. “And don’t you think we need to have an alternate meeting with appropriate representation?”

No. No I don’t. I think this WAS the alternate meeting. I think that sometimes we fight the good fight so long, we don’t know help when we see it. We get caught up in the how and loose sight of the goals. This IS the beginning of the future we’ve been talking about, for all of us. It is collaborative. It is caring. We don’t need to fight each other; we need to join forces and spread the word to stop this terrible trend of tragedies, no matter who is suffering them. No matter who gets credit.

I am confident that Hamilton is in good hands; yours, mine and ours.

Creative Industries

When I opened the Heart of the Hammer it was to provide a space for the people involved in community-building in the neihgoburhood to meet casually, to get projects started and off the ground, to be comfortable and welcome and the enjoy some of the finer foods and beverage available to us.

I had no money and thought that I didn’t need any. (long explanation about THAT deleted) In the end I borrowed about 30K in start-up funding alone. If I had tried to borrow the money outright, people would have said “show me a business plan”. If I had shown them a business plan, it would have demonstrated that there was insufficient density/volume/revenue to support a cafe in our neighbourhood. It would not have been a wise investment. And yet, it was our neighbourhood that needed it.

As it happened I borrowed the money in incremental amounts as it was needed over the first six months, and it was invested not by people looking for financial gain, but by people who saw what was happening and believed in the necessity and the benefit of it. After a year and a half we have begun to pay back the loans and now find that there is a sustainable model emerging with new unforeseen benefits.

A lady from India went abroad to study and work and then returned to her village with the desire to preserve and share her cultural heritage. The area had no money and no industry, nothing but talent and skill and a rich community culture. So she asked some of the people to make paper and they made it from whatever grows there. She asked the story keepers to tell the stories and asked others to write the stories and they did so in wonderfully beautiful calligraphy. (I am envisioning reed pens and home-made ink.) She asked other people to illustrate the stories and they did with vibrant colours made from local resources.

As you can imagine, this took a long time. When the first book was only half finished, a publisher (Canadian?) was known to be in the big city and the woman knew that she could not pass up this opportunity. She took the half-finished prototype to a meeting with the publisher and asked if they would publish it? The publisher was so captivated with the work that she said she would take ten thousand copies (10,000!). The woman was thrilled but embarrassed to admit that she didn’t have the money for the printer and so must ask if she could have an advance. The publisher said, “You misunderstand me. I don’t want to print the book, I want ten thousand hand made books, hand illustrated and hand written.” And instead of royalties from books printed in the big city, the village became employed at using their talents and skills to share their stories with the world. They have made many books since that first one in the same way. (This is a true -as I remember it- story and the books are real. I forget the details.)

I believe that we are in the same position here in Hamilton; we need to leverage our art/talent/skill and merge it with our vision/energy/passion to share it with the world and see what new industries emerge. It needs to come from the ground up and if we build it, the benefits will come and the investments will follow.

We need to transform our creative art into creative industries. As they say at The Print Studio: Art is the New Steel.

Runnaway

When I was 11 I ran away from home and walked around downtown Guelph until after dark. This was pretty radical and I was sure I would get in trouble but it seems like no one noticed. Go figure, seven kids.

When I was fifteen I used to run away from home and sleep on the rocks at the Beach. No one noticed I was gone and though I spent the nights worrying about bugs and drunks and high tides I was pretty well hidden and enjoyed being alone.

When I was 28 and felt like I’d been looking after other people too long I took great big pieces of chalk and wrote all over the walls “How come nobody ever feeds ME?” I’m not sure this accomplished anything, though it may have spawned the chalk mural that became a feature of the apartment.

Last Thursday when I was uptomyeyeballs in unsolvable problems and ready to snap I left the cafe in the care of the neighbourhood and ran away again. I didn’t get far actually but I enjoyed being alone and able to think and sleep and relax and get a few things done. And I came back with some clarity and some direction that might lead to solutions.

And in my absence neighbours looked after the cafe and cleaned and shopped and entertained each other. We may not have a lot of staff, but we have a really big team. And somehow this feels like progress.

Morning Moms

Often, around 9:15 the cafe fills up with what I call the Morning Moms. Having dropped the kids at school they rendez-vous here for coffee or breakfast. They are all Beanerjunkies. Today both Josh and Gino are behind the counter and the Morning Moms are gobbling up Gino’s fresh baked cookies faster than he can bake them. Kathleen listens to their laughter and observes that we should all be so happy in the morning.

Andrea comes up from downstairs to announce that both toilets at the cafe are plugged. Celeste says to call Rosie’s husband who says that if it’s both of them it is probably the sewer pipes and not something a plunger will fix. Cindy goes down to try the plunger anyway. This is the kind of situation where I bang my head against the wall, knowing that the landlord couldn’t give a crap and this is going to be one more unexpected expense in a long list of space-related nuisances.

The morning moms are laughing again and I see that Cindy has succeeded where Rebeccas fear to tread. The washrooms are good to go, another batch of cookies is ready and Shelley Adams is still on repeat, which happily, no one but me has noticed.

Life is best approached collaboratively…

South Sherman Pioneer Village

About ten years ago I had this dream:

Something happened; a bomb or a war or some sort of disaster and everyone fled. I fled to some place that I knew the rest of my family would go to as well, and they did. So did many other people, friends and strangers alike. After a time of huddling in fear and wondering, we needed to make space for everyone and sort out who goes where, and then who could cook and what there was to eat. And then who could look after all the kids and when it became clear that this was going to be a long term arrangement, who could teach all the kids. Soon we had a list of everyone’s skills and how they could be useful. Everyone pitched in and a sort of pioneer village sprang up and before long no one was left huddling in fear and wondering. There was an incident with a message from another collection of people and to determine if we could collaborate with them, one question was sent to them, “What is important?” And the answer that came back? “People, people are important.”

This past Saturday the South Sherman Community Planning Team held an IMAGINE session where we got together with neighbours to imagine and describe what our neighbourhood would be like three generations from now after all of our dreams had been realized. And we ended the day with the fifty-cent question: “What are the priorities that we need to focus on now to make all of this possible later?” And the people who had come out, had given up their Saturday to help envision the future together, said that people were the priority: relationships, communication, engagement.

And today I realized that we are in the dream. That the disaster was a slow and poisonous one that sapped people’s self confidence and trust; it was an invisible, intangible disaster that left desolation in its wake instead of devastation. Devastation is so much easier to deal with than desolation.

And yet, here we are; believing that people are important, getting to know each other, finding out what each of us is good at and pitching in to make a difference. To make our own pioneer village.

Super Molly

Molly has come for crepes the last few weeks and each time she comes she draws a picture for the wall of the cafe. “I’m so good at doing art I can’t stand it!” she says. Yesterday she invented Molly Rockets Dipped in Chocolate, “It starts out chocolatey, and then the rocket takes off!”

“Community, can you watch my kid while I go to the washroom?” says her mom. I can’t tell you how moving it was to hear that. That she’s created a self-reliant trusting kid and we’ve created an environment she can trust, where kids can be themselves and know that all of the grownups are on their side.

I can’t wait for the day when all kids feel like they belong, everywhere.

Fraser

Fraser calls himself the only right-wing idealogue in a neighbourhood of socialists. He says he only started using the word socialist because his ex wife told him that he was offending too many people by calling them communists. Fraser fixes and sells gadgets down the block.

Fraser has a lot to say about government and immigration and business and history and citizenship and patriotism. His political platform is one he calls anti-incumbentism. He also has a lot to say about world travel. For a guy who claims to be against just about everything around him, he sure does help a lot of the people on the wrong side of his arguments.

On Friday mornings Fraser buys a couple extra cups of coffee and shares them with people on the street. Like Park Bench Lady. He sits and chats with her for a good long time.

Fraser is a magnet for teenagers, partly because he fixes and sells the kind of gadgets they like, and partly because he talks to them like they’re real people. Fraser talks to everyone like they are real people.

He goes to the high school football practices and gives them workout tips. He cooks for the 5 year old on her birthday and brings her mom out for Music Night. He keeps us all up-to-date on the specials at the grocery stores. He offers a Travel Tips Seminar at the cafe. Fraser knows how to travel in style, how to do it for less than you’d think, and what sort of things to prioritize in order to really make the most of your future lifetime memories.

Fraser doesn’t seem to hold it against me that I often try to steer the conversation AWAY from his favourite rants and I don’t hold it against him that he keeps trying.

Fraser knows the secret that the rest of us are trying to find: People are what’s important.

Park Bench Lady

We see her almost every day, Stella and I. I say good morning just because. For ten months she didn’t answer. Then a little while ago she answered. “Good morning.”

Last week, I could see as I approached, that she was looking at me, anticipating it.

“Good morning.” “Good morning.”

And today, she said it first.

With a smile.

l don’t know what it means, but now I am looking forward to it.

Assets and the Giving Economy

On Saturday 19 year old Alex looked at the Asset Inventory on the wall at the cafe and said “Who’s Ariel?” According to the asset inventory, Ariel is a five-year old who’d like to learn to play piano. “I can teach her,” said Alex.

In Seth Godin’s book Linchpin he talks about a giving economy, where people give to their family, friends and neighbours rather than charge money, or interest. He talks about how this is the way it used to be and that this creates prosperity and abundance for the community.

When Celeste coordinates the Property Angels, when the coaches share their wisdom at the Neighbourhood Business Round Table, when Sarah teaches crafts to kids on Saturday afternoons, they give their time and they enrich their community immeasurably.

There are certainly no shortage of people outside of our community with whom to do business so if the 19 year olds get it, without explanation, without training or courses or workshops on giving, how come it’s so surprising, so novel to the rest of us? How come it isn’t normal?

Maybe it is normal for them. Maybe what this generation, much derided for their lack of work ethic is ushering in is a new-school economy, new-school community. Maybe for these children of boomers who were the centre of our economy, education, lives, from whom nothing was stinted, maybe for them giving is normal.

Maybe without even trying they are ushering in a giving economy.

Girls

We started a new program at the cafe called Aerobics and Americano. The aerobics portion of the title is a bit of false advertizing since we aren’t anywhere near being able to do aerobics. We’re still working on the whole lifting the arms above the head thing and lifting the feet off the ground. Mostly, it’s just a whole lot of potty humour filling the hour and I’ve discovered a secret delight in making Cindy Currie laugh.

I call Cindy the neighbourhood Ombudsman cause she is always helping people out of a jam, advocating for them, counseling them. She has now launched a social enterprise to help people in the community with their financial issues, and a broad range of issues they are. (Ahem.)

6am aerobics is a special kind of torture for me because I am already at the cafe from 7am to 11pm. Of course, the last month or so I can’t get in at seven, but more like 8:30. 6am aerobics ensures that I am there by 7am, however, I guess I didn’t really think the others were serious about the 6am thing – I doubted the sincerity of my lady friends.

I grew up feeling that I had to apologize for being a girl. Boys were faster, stronger, better and for the first many years I struggled to be faster, stronger, better too. As a kid, though I was shunned by the Boy Scouts (and shunned the Girl Guides in my turn) I was generally friends with the boys, and the occasional tomboy. It wasn’t till I was seventeen that I discovered how cool girls could be, but being me, I guess I have to keep re-learning these lessons.

I spent the summer I was seventeen in Belleville, Ontario getting my Glider Pilot’s License. I’d been working towards it since joining Air Cadets at fourteen and a whole lot of work was finally paying off. There was only one room of girls but about seventy guys in a barracks across the park-like grounds. Horchemer and Freisner were my friends and we spent as much time playing frisbee as studying. My impression is that the powers-that-be were surprised that we passed. Somehow a circle of teaching and learning helped each of us to fill in gaps in our knowledge. I ate and slept with the girls but the guys were my buddies.

One day, we girls planned a night raid on the guys’ barracks. There was one fellow I really didn’t like and I had a sweet revenge planned for him. I forget what his crime was, but the lingering question is why eight smart girls training to fly gliders would gamble their scholarships on a lark? We believed that as long as we stuck together, they wouldn’t kick us all out. But would we all stick together? Do girls do that sort of thing?

We mapped out our route to the guys’ barracks along the tree-shadows cast by the spotlights installed to prevent exactly this kind of activity. We had an inside guy who left a window open and my guys had told me where my enemy slept. Our scout hoisted each of us into the window and then stayed watch while the rest of us set about our missions in the darkened barracks.

I crept to the very last room, third bed on the left, and positioned myself over the head of my tormentor. I had two tubes stuck in my track pants; water-resistant glue for his mustache and Neat for his eyebrows. I put a glob of each on a finger, capped the tubes, stuck them back into their “holsters” and as I leaned over to wipe it into place, someone I hadn’t seen, who’d been watching, suddenly yelled out “This is it guys!”

I wiped my hands on my pants and ran for the door as groggy boys woke up all over. I was in the farthest of about a dozen rooms, running down a darkened hall, knowing for certain that our plan would fail; the girls would be long-gone and I would be “Returned to Unit” without a license.

In my imagination, if not for real, I did a very fancy dive out the window, landed head first into a roll and then up into a sprint across the empty field. In fact, as soon as I made to sprint, I heard behind me, “Rebecca!” and turned to see all of the girls crouched in the shadow of the window. Waiting.

And as we retraced our steps along the shadows of the trees as fast as we could go in this non-linear fashion, my heart burst with success, not at having tormented someone who I imagined deserved it or pulling off a successful caper, but that we, the girls, had made a plan and stuck to it. That we had come together as a team, supported each other and returned to laugh about it.

So why was I surprised when the morning moms showed up, not at the cafe but at my house, at 5:45 that first morning? And every morning for a week they came at 6am to the cafe, creaking and groaning as we turn back our biological clocks and weed out all those aging cells. Why was I surprised? Why did I doubt them? Is it fear of failure? Fear of success?

Maybe it’s just part of being a girl, that we have to rediscover and reinvent ourselves.

Today americano; tomorrow aerobics.