2020 was a wild year…
Now what?

We took the streets over and over again.
Screamed names of those Black folks stolen from us.
Gathered by the thousands.
Chanted for liberation.
Called on the young to come carry the torch.
Leaned on our elders for wisdom.
We danced, we cried, we sang, we argued, our hearts broke.
Now what?

I got really tired near the end of 2020. Not sure I could handle more bad news. Not sure I could handle picking myself back up. Watching footage back from the Spring, Summer, and into the Fall I have no idea how I had the stamina to show up, how I had the air left in my lungs and fire in my chest but man, I did. As I discussed on a panel once upon a time with some community members it’s a calling and responsibility to community, it’s a love letter from the universe asking you to stand up if you can. For me, that’s how it is anyways. 

But, seriously, now what? We have entered a new year, with the same ailments and same societal structures and systems…how are we going to create a new world? What are we doing differently and with more intention to disrupt? What bad habits are we leaving behind? What things no longer require permission? Where is our joy? Where is our action? 

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I am moving forward. I’ve been sinking my teeth into new learnings and different practices in order to support my own evolution. I am constantly thinking about how to be the most efficient and how we may be able to tap into a new momentum. But I don’t have any answers. I feel like I’m digging and sculpting a path with an unknown destination. I’m looking all around me, above and below me for clues and wisdom I may have missed. Knowing this path is uncertain. 

I feel proud of the noise that Halifax and Nova Scotia made this past little while. We have drawn on energy centuries old to support us now. We only are where we are because what has been before us has already been. I am thankful for my ancestors. I am thankful for the communities that keep our stories and knowledge alive and are gracious enough to share. I am because you are. 

The only thing I know is I don’t play with mine. So that’s what I can bring with me. That’s my forever bag. 

The dream is one day to not have to take the streets for injustice and state sanctioned murder. It’s a dream. Truly. A place we must believe in so deeply that we feel it in our every fibre. That’s a lot of hope and a lot of faith. This activist shit is almost like a religion, not organized but a practice you have to commit to and recommit to and lose your way on the path and then find a new path with deeper understanding. Shit’s hard.

ALL THIS TO SAY…The time for a battle cry will come again and I hope chants past echo into your sphere and you show the fuck up, ready to fuck shit up. This marathon (rest in eternal power, Nipsey) is far from over and we must keep going. 

And now you should ask yourself, now what for you?

See also: Kate MacDonald: A different journey

The post Kate MacDonald: 2020 was a wild year. Now what? appeared first on Nova Scotia Advocate.

This is not a piece about answers, about shiny times, about easy times, about success even. This is a piece about process. My processing and steps. And hopefully someone else will read these words and feel less alone in their process, maybe even find some bravery to take their first step.

I have been on this path of unearthing my mental health mysteries for a long, long time. Longer than I was even aware of. Back to being an anxious, independent, overly emotional child. I can see the signs now, looking back. 

Even as a teenager, who could stay up and out all night until the sunrise with little to no fatigue, I see the signs there too.

Into my early 20’s where the party truly never ended and things were barely in control. Choices and people and priorities all show the signs of needing mental health intervention then as well.

That brings me here – almost 30 and playing zero games about my future.

I have been diagnosed with anxiety for about five years and taken and tried a handful of medications, only to be disappointed by their lack of magic to fix me. I have been through a few therapists, mentors, spiritual guides, and energy healers. Feeling like I am on a path, certainly, but still there was a piece that just wasn’t fitting, a coin that simply wasn’t dropping.

Always pointing to my adoption as the root of most of my abandonment and attachment issues, I didn’t look much further. Until I broke down.

My life, this life I have prayed for I can barely enjoy. The paranoia and intrusive thoughts keep me pinned into a pattern and way of thinking I need to break free from. I want to break free. I look back on myself even a year ago and barely recognize my thought processes anymore. I spiral into panic and tight chested moments leaving little room to enjoy anything. I am so tightly wound with the idea that I can control all of my life, I can’t ever relax. Fixated on the idea that no one truly likes me and everyone is on the brink of leaving.

I am exhausted. Because on top of this I am many other things. This sick brain is also a creative, loving, innovative, fierce place to reside. But most of that I am currently unable to see. I can’t see how I love myself and how I am loved for.

Seemingly, this sounds bleak. Seemingly, I sound as though I am giving up. But that is truly not the case. I am writing this because right in this part of the struggle, journey, work, people quit. Now is where there is no warm sunshine, there are no unicorns and rainbows.

This is where most people stop. And because we don’t really talk about things in full, we keep re-accessing the same dialogues and conversations so there are also no stones for people to step on, no lily pads to jump between and no bread crumbs to follow. Fuck that. I want to leave a map. I am not certain what comes next. I am in the in-between. I am not certain tomorrow will be better or will feel as beautiful as two days ago, but I am in the in-between, and in this place all there is is hope and faith and prayer and dreams – whatever that means to you. 

I can’t even say I’m familiar with these things because I am not. I have faith that if I get dressed I can do it. Even though on my break at work I need to make six phone calls about assessments, leave three voicemails advocating for myself, and answer three emails about how I have been placed on yet another wait list.

I have hope that at some point every hard thought won’t lead me to tears, but in the meantime I must cry to pour out from my very full cup. I must have faith and hope that the parts of me I am burying will plant seeds for the person I dream myself to be. I am on my way to her. I must forgive the person I have had to be to get me here and thank the universe for the wisdom along the way. I must pray that it isn’t too late for me or my life, but that I am simply on time.

I continue to pray that this shit gets easier because god knows my shoulders can only hold so much. But I have faith I can handle what I have been given. I walk and speak and dream in gratitude to those around me who keep me in their prayers. I know that what comes next is an onslaught of appointments, scary words, long therapists appointments, and unlearning lots of behaviours and coping mechanisms. And I will never be ready which I guess means I’m always ready. 

I promise to myself to continue in the vein of discovery and to everyone else in the in-between this is but a moment, a chapter, a journey. Forever forward and everything will come together in time.  

Be easy, in love, Kate 

See also: Kate MacDonald: Cracking open empathy during the pandemic

With a special thanks to our generous donors who make publication of the Nova Scotia Advocate possible.

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The post Kate MacDonald: A different journey appeared first on Nova Scotia Advocate.

KJIPUKTUK (Halifax) – Menz and Mollyz was by no means a perfect space. It was inaccessible in a multitude of ways, which was devastating for a lot of queer, trans and other marginalized and racialized folks. This is not to denounce the space, but mourning this space also means bringing the truth to light. And the truth was…this bar had its issues. 

For myself, a young queer African Nova Scotian woman, I had been a patron at Menz for a long time. Too long even. I had been on the stage in many forms. Been brave enough to explore myself and discover new talents. I was able to be super gay, which wasn’t always something that felt like a smart (or safe) idea. I could dance and drink and fight and laugh and I could be whoever and leave whatever shit at the door. 

I can definitely say I am saddened by the lack of goodbye. Goodbyes are hard for me regardless. But the haunting of not saying a proper one feels extra hard this time around. 

My heavy heart mourns the memories of Menz. After quarantine I dreamt of late night dancing and drag that I would be beside myself to see. Now I don’t know what I’m dreaming of. 

But when there is a lack of something that means your dreams can have no boundaries. So what queer space can we dream into existence now? Without holding back, how big do we dare to dream and how can we get there? I have no answers to these questions. But trust me, I am dreaming. I am playing loud music in my headphones. I am dancing like I am still there. I am watching documentaries of Studio 54 and wondering where we will go now. I think about when I could be half a block away and see the green light glowing outside. See the flood of people pour out the door and I would be spotted instantly.Then came the kisses on the cheeks, the compliments, the hugs, the laughs, the reads. The tears I shed are purely for the growing pains that are extra painful when you didn’t see them coming. 

The bar has undergone so many transformations. New decor, the stage over here and then over there. New DJ’s, new queens, new bands, new bar stars, new bar staff, new outfits (but seriously the outfits). But some of us always returned no matter how far we roamed. I can’t even remember the first time I was at Menz. But I can remember the sold out shows and empty dance floors built for twirling under the red light with a few of my favourite people. 

I went back to see the bar. Take pictures of the outside for my memory bank. It was wildly emotional. How do you mourn the death of a place? Where does the grief go when the death wasn’t of a person? All questions I ask with no compass of direction. I just know I lost a place where there were few rules for me. And that definitely stings for sure. 

For the next queer space we decide to hold. The next haven built for exploration of gender, redefining family and a dance cave full of firsts… let’s remember our whole community deserves access to that space. Everyone deserves a bar that feels like home (and a lot of that had to do with the carpet at Menz but still…) 

It’s often discouraged to hold two truths at once. We aren’t taught how to do this I am convinced that we can hold complex feelings around this situation as a community, in community. We can mourn this space and criticize its downfalls. We can be sad and hopeful for a wilder, weirder, more inclusive future. And I can’t wait to arrive there. 

Basically any and every thing has happened this year, I don’t think we should leave this seemingly big dream off of the table either. In the spirit of pitchers of long island iced tea, let’s give Menz and Mollyz the send off it deserves and move towards a bigger and more accessible, badass future. 

See also: Kate MacDonald: Cracking open empathy during the pandemic

With a special thanks to our generous donors who make publication of the Nova Scotia Advocate possible.

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KJIPUKTUK (Halifax) – I have been stuck writing this next piece. Topics seem to be presenting themselves daily. Things are constantly changing within, in community, with the environment, within the government. The only thing constant is change. 

We have watched the world go from highlighting kindness and loving thy neighbour to character-shaking fear. 

I got my first taste of this on a grocery run at Sobeys. I said excuse me to a middle aged white man and when I approached to pass him he screamed in my face to stay back. 

I honestly thought my first reaction would be to lunge. But instead my heart began to ache. Oh my god. What is wrong with people? My partner took on the fire for both of us. As we continued shopping I flash backed to many other times in my life I had been yelled at unprovoked. I started to shake. We are all afraid and some legitimately have the right to be more afraid than others. But also, privilege doesn’t disappear in a pandemic, it amplifies. 

We got into line and I could see him at the other end of the store. I went outside and waited for him. Calmly. But I must have looked like I was waiting with a mission because everyone who passed looked at me. Finally he walked out. I said “I hope when you are in a time of need you remember how you treated people.” 

Full well knowing I have felt the backlash of karma. Those lessons are hard and levelling. I asked the universe to hear my wishes for his karma to return. He told me I couldn’t read and was a moron. I then told him I hope he doesn’t receive the help he needs when he needs it. To be so afraid you forget humanity…this was my first taste of it. 

The second time was at Dollarama. I had to purchase activities for the kids to keep it together and explore while we are all locked in the house. An older man was unable to navigate the robotic self check out. The man approached the employee confused and bewildered as to why this wasn’t working for him. The employee then yelled “Stay back sir!” 

Everyone was shocked. Fuck the rules. I went over and paid for him. Bagged his cat food and returned to my place in line. When I finally raised my gaze, folks around me were crying. My face was hot because I’ve been this person truly since I was a kid. Soft and touched by others’ emotions. I just wanted to pay and leave. I hate the way this place is looking right now. Dollarama, the mall, the city, the world. I hate how we are treating each other. 

And then, icing on the cake, Stephen McNeil placing blame on Black communities for the spread of this virus. I couldn’t even listen at first. I couldn’t read anything about it. Black people are so familiar with the drill of being scrutinized with every move and over-policed. Remnants of caution tape from years passed still plague Black communities everywhere. This is effectively no one’s first drill. Not our first imposing illness we have survived. We are seasoned in high stakes situations. I knew this was coming, as others must have expected. 

The government doesn’t know how to honor us, repay us, see us. So am I shocked? No. But I’m disappointed every single time that our brilliance has to be so loudly self proclaimed. 

A virus that has been linked directly to travel and exposure now needs a home to grow its roots of blames in. Of course that blame falls on the bodies of Black folks. 

This last piece…along with calls from the community that aren’t feeling well has me burnt out. My heart is hurting and I miss the closeness of my people. Especially the children. 

I’m not too worried about the virus killing young Black folks. I know we’ll make it through, like we have for hundreds of years before, against all odds. But a medical system that has so long ignored the cries of Black health and wellness needs leads to conversations around comorbidity, environmental racism and just access to the healthcare system. 

When looking at our elders, long exposed to the environmental injustices in this province, my heart breaks. I’ve always felt a sense of urgency around gathering our knowledge, stories, recipes and secrets. Now I feel like time is moving so quickly. Community efforts are surfacing and I hope we lean into them wholeheartedly so we can save ourselves. We are our saviours. Time to have faith in that. 

Trayvone Clayton said we will come out on the other side, different, but we will come out. They can’t really arrest and they can’t really kill us dead in the streets either. But I am worried about the pain, the blame, anxiety and fear grabbing a hold of us while we wait in purgatory for this to be over. I worry about the heartache taking hold of us. 

I am sending this article out in love. In hope. In trust in a new tomorrow and another day. In gratitude for those who are around me and how we are holding each other up. And to my Black folks and marginalized communities, you’re the backbone of this country. Don’t let anyone trick you into forgetting. 

See also: Kate MacDonald: Step parenting

With a special thanks to our generous donors who make publication of the Nova Scotia Advocate possible.

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The post Kate MacDonald: Cracking open empathy during the pandemic appeared first on Nova Scotia Advocate.

KJIPUKTUK (Halifax) – Nothing like the movies and no one could ever adequately describe it…I present to you…step parenting. What may well come to mind when you think of step parenting are movies of evil step moms or characters of whack “step boyfriends” who take up space and don’t do much. 

The reality is that being a step-anything is a really precious, precarious place to be. I am honoured and was chosen to step parent three wild, fierce children, ages 13, 9 and two and half. 

This journey was one my partner offered for me to not have to take part in. In the beginning I did truly only sign up for one relationship. But I have operated through the lens of the next generation, truly here to kick ass. 

I love kids. I think they are the vibrancy and curiosity of community. I wasn’t fazed at the task. Little did I know what weight this would carry. 

The youngest angel chose me immediately. Our energies align and we became close. Boo boos and changing diapers. Long, sick nights. And puke. Lots of puke. Lots of cuddles, laughs, new words, talking with the moon and firsts. The ever exciting firsts. She and I get each other. The hurdles in our relationship have been mostly about my own hang ups. Nothing she needs to shoulder now or ever. 

The middle angel. The only boy in the house. A scorpio for some context. Embraced me with a couple questions locked and loaded in his back pocket when he felt like he wanted to test my waters. An activist in his mindset. Watching him break through the confines of masculinity like a flower through the concrete has been magical. He thinks I’m cool. In truth, he’s the coolest. Hard conversations and hugs that I won’t deny because soon I’ll be the one dying for them. 

The oldest flower. If our relationship was a song, it would be named “Trials & Tribulations”. Her fiery emotions remind me a lot of myself. When my flames roared, they licked and lashed. She is sure of herself. Sure of her relationships. The toughest road to navigate with no compass. But truthfully, the moments of connection, love and family with her are so deep.

Everything. I mean everything is worth it. I would travel this road back again fifteen times just knowing that she trusts me enough to tell me the hard things, ask me the super hard questions of being a new teenager, and the weird new words and concepts thrown loosely around junior high…she brings me those things. Those are gifts. I get to pass on all of the shit I learned the hard way. I get to talk to a 13 year old star and offer flowers to her when the world might feel like thorns. She miraculously thinks I’m cool. She mimics me in gentle ways. And truthfully I admire her. 

This is the stage for our story. I had visions of myself parenting and perfectly doing so all the time. I am an early riser, was once a huge party girl so I don’t need much sleep…right? Wrong. So desperately naive and wrong. I wouldn’t give myself an A+ by any means. I don’t infuse every conversation with wisdom and I don’t leap at every opportunity as a learning moment. I am tired. Get grumpy. My inner work sometimes makes me distant. I want to do this work so in the moments they call on me I can show up authentically. 

Sometimes I need moments alone – a reset. Sometimes I don’t have answers. Or am so checked out I answer with “I don’t know”. Barely even having registered the question. I balance activism, project coordinating, community care, and youth working and trying to heal deep and ugly wounds with being a stepparent. And sometimes…I fail. Probably a lot, to be honest. But you know what else I do? I pack up my failures, fears, ego and pride and I say sorry. I talk through my ugly pieces openly. I try to give tools to show them that emotions happen and people feel things. If nothing else, we will communicate our feelings. I try my best to do that. To encourage their choices as perfect because only they know what’s perfect for them. I celebrate them. Their wins and loses and shining moments. I’m proud of it all. 

Another added layer of understanding to this needs to be that these kids are African Nova Scotian. They are black, my same black, family black… And me actively seeking the learnings about black history, struggle, and beauty makes me so acutely aware of the stats and realities of black childhood. The fear of parenting black children is real. A fine line between love and severity are injected to every conversation around safety and choices. I want to teach them their DNA and last names are worth their weight in gold. While also knowing the system hunts and punishes black kids for sport. I am ferocious about how the world speaks to them and about them. 

That test was proven when someone called our 9 year old Scorpion “unsafe” for having big feelings and taking space…you know the kind of silent, calm stalking of animals you see in the woods? Quiet, fearless…anyone who knows me knows I’m hot headed. But not this time. You will not, repeat not, call a young black man unsafe. That’s your projection. He is considerate and sensitive and can feel your bullshit…Another parenting moment no one can prepare you for. Instincts take over. You’re entirely at the will of your protective senses. This story, or movie, or…wild reality t.v. show unfolds like this daily. 

This adventure will be as long as our lives. I could keep on writing for forever in truth. Hoping that through the documentation and admiration of my own experiences others can feel validated and connected. 

We are all just doing our best, moment to moment. And some days, on the lucky days, that looks really good. 

See also: Kate MacDonald: Now is the time for healing

With a special thanks to our generous donors who make publication of the Nova Scotia Advocate possible.

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The post Kate MacDonald: Step parenting appeared first on Nova Scotia Advocate.

KJIPUKTUK (Halifax) – In this very weird time of limiting our social gatherings, now more than ever, I have to sit with myself. 

How can I/we begin? How can we use this time to start anew? How will I use this time to grow? How will I meet my demons? How will I love myself with no distraction, only going deeper? 

Now is the time for healing. For deep, messy, unavoidable self reflection. Finding ways to collect every resource we could ever need to heal ourselves. The world has stopped for but a moment in its long life to force this time upon us. How will we get to know the children and partners and family we are so lucky to be “stuck with”? 

If you had caught me a few years back I would’ve recommended that everyone needs some form of therapy and 100% would not have taken my own advice.

Here I stand, after having reached out to community when my triggered state became too much for me to navigate and having completed two (extra long) therapy sessions. Are you wondering if I feel like I’m seeing everything for the first time, fresh and new? You’re probably thinking…wow I bet she’s sleeping like an angel…Or maybe her self confidence is renewed. 

The truth is I feel like I’m waist deep in thick mud, standing at the bottom of a mountain and I can’t see the top because the fog is so thick. But I’m beginning. Against all odds being stacked against me… I have begun. 

After working with youth for years, hoping to at some point influence or guide their decisions oftentimes getting them to just begin is the true hurdle. 

Just make one “good” choice, just walk away from one fight, just apply for one thing, just finish one assignment…just begin curating your life in a way that feels strange and hard. Those feelings will eventually become familiar and you will find that you can do literally anything. 

To fulfil and face our highest version of ourselves is terrifying because what if we fail? Well, in truth, we will fail. We always fail. We fail everyday. And so fucking what? We get up and try again. We learn and move forward. All advice that I am so familiar with sharing and now having to take myself. 

To have hard conversations of getting to know each other so intimately we can see the gift in isolating together. To create a space and home that is infused with the freedom to feel. To return back to ways before our time – ancestral knowledge. 

What a time, full of wonder, growth, and possibility. 

With a special thanks to our generous donors who make publication of the Nova Scotia Advocate possible.

Subscribe to the Nova Scotia Advocate weekly digest and never miss an article again. It’s free!

The post Kate MacDonald: Now is the time for healing appeared first on Nova Scotia Advocate.