Give me liberty or...

Give me liberty or...

This blog is woefully neglected. But better this blog than my life as lots of changes been happenin' over the past few months.

Friends describe me now as a woman liberated, but freedom always comes at a cost as sometimes it seems you trade in one set of chains for another.

I'm still smiling--with an authenticity--and a hope that this new path I'm forging in Canada is not for anyone else but myself.

However, if anyone else finds their life benefiting from my existence in the True North Strong and Free, well then, that's just gravy. 

America the Beautiful

America the Beautiful

It's been nearly a month since the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The World Trade Center memorial has been unveiled and the poignant speeches have all been spoken. By now, the survivors and families of victims have made the dizzying rounds on the media circuit, and with soundbites and sentiments packaged, the international networks and local news crews have packed up and left. What remains are fizzed out leftovers of American nationalism and the steady wave of NYC tourists curious about the gaping holes in the southern tip of that busy island.

I was tempted to indulge in my own mourning and remembrance of 9/11 in a sappy blog, but I didn't think I could add any more to the pundits already postulating on the significance of that day. I had some stuff to say, but I couldn't justify using 9/11 for a spike in blog readership if tagged properly.

And so 10 years and one month later, the timeliness of the news hook is delayed, but I still remember. And it still hurts. And I still can't figure out why physically being on American soil on the date of the anniversary mattered, but as it turns out, it mattered very much indeed. 

I had just flown in for a quick visit home and was tickled happy to be sitting at the table surrounded by all of six of my siblings and their significant others. These moments are rare and I relished it, and my dad's perfectly grilled steak, with sweet satisfaction. When my dad said he had an announcement to make, all eyes moved towards the head of the table. Forks clinked loudly on emptying plates and I think I may have nervously joked, "who's pregnant now?" 

Taking advantage of our presence on the eve of 9/11, Dad he said he wanted to take a vote about what to do with the American flag on our family's property. Do we do as the rest of the nation and lower it to half mast in symbolic mourning, or do we leave it up in defiance of proper protocol? 

It was unanimous. 

In honour of the nearly 3,000 victims, we voted to leave it raised, letting it fly proud and free. 

On the morning of September 11th, I attended church with my family. I was restless, and sometimes, tradition brings comfort. 

You couldn't deny the heaviness in the air and I wondered how my home pastor would tie in the anniversary of the attacks with a sermon. As much as I believe him to be a sincere man of God, I blanched at the thought of him trying to politicize such a day or manipulate our emotions for the purposes of "the Kingdom." He introduced the worship team for a special song and as they started into the old classic, "America the Beautiful," I started to bristle with my new-found Canadian cynicism. 

In the end, my humanity won out and I could help but weep at the 200-year-old hymn, turned patriotic song. Singing in solidarity with my fellow Americans in my parents' church felt right and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Looking down the aisle, I saw ripe tears falling on several of my family members' faces. It was visceral and healing at the same time. 

This September 11, 2011, Ground Zero found its way all across America. From the gutted out financial district of Manhattan, to the church pews of Oklahomans, who remember the violence of terror all too well themselves. 

When we came to the line in the lyrics, "thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," my voice caught in my throat and I wondered if the writer of that old poem knew how poignant her words would one day become. How prophetic even. Because even through my wet obscurity, America had never looked more beautiful. 


The flag on my parents' property at sunset

Tippin' another sacred cow

Tippin' another sacred cow

He's adored, revered, highly sought after, and one day I'm sure he'll be enshrined as Canada's first nationally televised hipster. I even find him quite likeable most days. But today, he's ass-backwards wrong.

I'm talking about Greek media god, George Stroumboulopoulos. 

Today on CBC's website, he gave a touching eulogy on the gradual fase out of the classic Cuban car as Cuba has lifted the 50 year old ban on private car sales. Seriously. He's mourning the death of one of the symbols of Cuban communism, when the rest of freedom lovers are celebrating. 

Newsflash classic car lovers (myself included) and Mr. Strombo: there is nothing nostalgic about communism. When Castro decides to let people decide for themselves what car they want to drive, we dance in the streets, not romanticize a dictatorship. 

Cue the pitchforks as I dodge the angry village people of Strombo Land. 

Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano

He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.

Ancient Bella,

Your cracks reveal stories, not age

Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity

Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past

Mother-duty shoulders in silence

Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time

The mountains raise in buttress support

as salute to your beauty

The burghers hold your secrets,

and the watchtower waits

Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery

journey through medieval maze,

morphing as they pass

Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass

Santo Stefano,

holy ground for the wandering heart, 

you remain an aching memory.

Oklahoma

Oklahoma

Wide open spaces, friendly faces. Subtle twangs and simple things. Southern fried, dignified. Lovin’ hard, lovin’ long. Uncomplicated, syncopated like a good ole country song.

Some sacred cows are meant to be slain

Some sacred cows are meant to be slain

Sun Media recently published my column on "Cuba: A Pretend Paradise."

After reading about the regime's most recent form of censorship, conducting a phone interview with someone connected to the underground in Cuba, and getting into a heated exchange with some of my own friends who believe me to be a naive embargoed American on the subject, I felt compelled to write. A certain righteous indignation led me. I felt I owed it to the 600,000 Canadians who travel there every year in blind ignorance that life is sunny on the beaches, and to the Cuban people, whose voice has been silenced.

I braced for the hate mail for having stepped on thousands of Canadians' toes. But a surprising thing (or not so surprising) happened. The comment section has been flooded with "gracias" from former Cubans who have fled, and some who still remain. 

My contact who asked to be left nameless, sent me dozens of links to my article appearing on Cuban news, blogs and websites. It would appear the people of Cuba are grateful for those who can afford the freedom to speak out against status quo in their country.

And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.

Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.

This was for you, Cuba. 

Below is a small collection of their responses:

Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.

Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.

Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artículo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.

En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranía por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.

Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos quería emigrar.

Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.

Gracias nuevamente

English translation

Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.

In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.

Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.

Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.

Thanks again

CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.

Courtesy: www.fotoreflection.com

Journalism junkies unite

Journalism junkies unite

For those friends and family who feel I'm ignoring them or can't understand why I'm not making co-ed ultimate frisbee games, Buck and Does, get togethers for great-grandmothers and other extracurricular fun a priority anymore, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin' contest these days. It's hard to articulate what it takes to produce a one-hour daily talk show for a spankin' new national news network, with the added pressure to daily increase ratings and disprove critics' assertions you don't belong in the rat race that is media, but here's a brilliant snippet from a veteran that knows it very well:

These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.

I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.

I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)

The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.


So yeah. I'm doing well to take time to pee these days too. Friends and family, gimme your grace along the way. At the end of the day, but mostly on the weekends when I have a second to breathe, I still remember what matters most in life. It's Saturday, my work Blackberry keeps flashing more incoming, but I'm heading out to my deck with a good book on a great summer day.

Top 5 things you should know when takin' the GO

Top 5 things you should know when takin' the GO

1. The train's departure time is like God, no discriminator of persons. 

It does not care how action-movie-like your car's slide into a parking spot was, or how fast you ran in three inch heels whilst whipping a 10-pound wheel bag behind you to the train platform, or how hard you bang on the cruel closing of the doors in your face. It will leave you in its on time departure dust.

2. It is acceptable to finish putting on your face in front of complete strangers.

Making the trek from Hamilton to Toronto forces you to leave your home to catch the train at an ungodly hour, so you're lucky enough to remember to put your underwear and deodorant on at pre-dawn hours, let alone finishing a proper make-up job. While my new position no longer has me in front of the camera these days, I refuse to give into the crazed over-worked producer look. I still like to look put together even if in the process I have a handful of bleary-eyed train travelers looking on with a bizarre mix of curiosity and disdain. Hey! At least I'm not applying mascara at the stop-light in my car. I like to think of those 15 minutes applying makeup as my very own unedited Extreme Makeover show, with the audience sitting in for the before and after look.

3. Your seat is not assigned and you are free to move about the train.

Especially when you find yourself seated in the vicinity of a morning-person with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Pavarotti. My personal favorite is the seat change that comes with sitting across from the socially inept, loud cell phone talker who, wait for it, doesn't mind if the entire world overhears all the gritty details of their relationship woes. Those are the moments when you change coaches completely guilt free, for you have just saved yourself from a potential Primetime What Would You Do? moment.

4. Do not judge the open-mouthed, snoring, drooling train sleeper.

Because sooner or later, that WILL be you. Granted, I've fought the urge to doze off because I don't want to be one of them, but just three weeks into my daily commute, I know my time is coming. And when that time comes, look upon me with sympathy I beg of you.

5. Although air-conditioned, the train is not immune to funky smells.

The most pervasive of them all is the unsettling odor of hundreds of frantic folks running to catch the train in the heat and humidity of summer in Toronto. Lucky for you they make it just in the nick of time and plop down on all sides of you still huffing and emitting their funky fumes. It doesn't get better until a few train stops in. Just carry a scarf dipped in perfume to cover your face to get you through the commute. It'll be less conspicuous than your irritated face and scrunched up nose.

I'm sure the lessons will continue as time and experience allow.

To be continued and feel free to leave your own 'things you should know' for us newbies or those considering the GO train commute.

Courtesy GO Transit

Storyteller

Storyteller

I was going through and removing old web bookmarks from my computer that I don't use or need anymore, and almost removed this lovely image in the process:

"Storyteller"
Courtesy www.PamelaMurphyStudio.com

I'm glad I didn't. This picture brings me back to who I really am and what I love to do. It gave cause for necessary pause and drew a knowing smile. And on the busiest of days or on the most arduous of climbs to get where I think it is I want to go, may I never forget that underneath it all, I'm just a girl who loves to tell a good story--even if all's I got are a few butterflies listening in.

A daughter's confession

A daughter's confession

When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.
— Mark Twain

Well I've never been a boy, but I can certainly appreciate the author's sentiment. At 31, I'm astonished at how much I still need my father. I thought I was supposed to be all grown up and stuff by now, but in times of big decision-making or crisis,  I look upon the long-distance phone charges with fondness because most of them are "Dad calls."

I have many friends without fathers today and I'm keenly aware that could just as easily be me. I'm sure I would be lost without him and so while I've still got him, I hold him as tightly as I can from my long-distance perch here in Canada.

Today I ranted on Facebook and Twitter about our vapid shout-outs to our dads via social media platforms. I'm sure I insulted a few folks who don't know me well, but my point is this: if your father was good to you, worked his butt off to put a roof over your head, took second place on presents every Christmas and Father's Day, and invested in the person you are today, then I don't believe an updated Facebook status will cut it.

If I could be, I'd be with the rest of my siblings in southwestern Oklahoma today, hiking up the worn-out and modest mountain tops as my dad leads the way to our favorite spots growing up as kids--avoiding wild buffalos, cactus pricks and sunburns, because Mom will ask why we didn't put on sunscreen--all the while celebrating life with him and relishing the view at the top of the climb. We've done it dozens of times and know the trails by heart, but somehow it never gets old.

Dad, all my life you told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and I was naive enough to believe it. I think I'm well on my way to my own mediocre mountain climb, but I'm certain one of my greatest achievements is being cherished by you.

Me and dad at the back of Notre Dame in Paris, May 2011

Rescue of the Chilean miners was a mix of technology and a divine miracle, driller says

Rescue of the Chilean miners was a mix of technology and a divine miracle, driller says

He will go down in history as “the man with the plan” to find and rescue all 33 of the trapped Chilean miners last August. Greg Hall is the owner of a drilling manufacturing company with offices in Houston, northern Minnesota and Chile. And while he cannot deny he engineered the project that enabled the rescue watched around the world, the humble Catholic who serves as a deacon in his local church insists “it was God who drilled the hole.”

When the collapse of the gold mine in Copiapo happened on Aug. 5, 2010, the Chilean government immediately sent drill rigs that began a guessing game of poke work into the tough terrain. Poor geological mapping and insufficient equipment made the search effort chaotic. They knew the miners were buried somewhere 500 meters and 800 meters below the surface, but the local mineral exploration rigs could only reach as far as 450 meters.

Mr. Hall’s drill manufacturing company, Drillers Supply International, had the tools and the faith needed to find the men. By Day 12, he and his team were certain they were on a body recovery mission. On Day 17, the team heard a banging on his drill pipe, the first  sign of life. Attached to his drill pipe, was a muddied note in red ink that read, “Estamos bien en el refugio los 33.” We are all right in the shelter, the 33 of us.

But Mr. Hall’s journey with the miners didn’t end there. The government, unsatisfied with other plans proposed to bring the men to the surface, called Greg’s company again to ask if he had a solution. His plan was called Plan B, the back up plan.

On assignment for Listen Up TV, I sat with the Texas giant — he is 6 feet 6 inches, 300 pounds — to gather the untold story of Plan B and to hear why he believes in the power of prayer, and calls the rescue “a miracle.”

Read more here: 

Among the Ethiopian ruins, faith and worship

Among the Ethiopian ruins, faith and worship

It was a mass of thousands, everyone dressed in holy white. I was one of the many who had gathered in Addis Ababa Stadium for the celebration of Epiphany, one of the most sacred holidays for Orthodox Christians in Ethiopia. The ancient ceremony, commemorating the baptism of Jesus Christ, brought the fourth largest city in Africa to a standstill. I couldn’t help but feel like a gawking heathen, gathering snapshots of a party I wasn’t invited to, but the high priest’s voice over the loud speakers assured me of my welcome.

“Let the ferenji (foreigners) gather close,” he said. “We all serve the same God.”

Children kicked around deflated soccer balls, hustlers created make-shift betting games in the dirt, and youth groups representing various Orthodox churches in the city drummed and danced in anticipation of the priests’ arrival with the Tabot, a replica of the famed Ark of the Covenant, believed to represent the manifestation of Jesus when he came to the Jordan River for baptism.

Gaiety momentarily masked the reality of hardship for many in the booming yet still struggling economy of Addis.  Solemnity — as thousands simultaneously bowed and kissed the ground — revealed a reverence for the sacred not often displayed in public life in the West.

Read more here: 

Post-Christmas reflections from an American expatriate

Post-Christmas reflections from an American expatriate

Evidence of Christmas lingers here at home with stockings strung across the floor, stray bits of wrapping paper tucked here and there, and the pick, picking at left-overs from yesterday's feast.

What hasn't persisted is the nostalgia that expats tend to carry with them back to their hometowns. It was glorious while it lasted with our Kodak perfect smiles and inside family jokes that make you howl 'til your sides ache. Sentimentality is sweet and it's the thing that keeps you coming back, but it's only fleeting. Reality sets in after a while and you begin to be thankful that you booked your flight "return."

Don't get me wrong. Nothing beats mother's home-cooking or seeing your father's proud smile in person. And nothing compares with having six siblings who are duplicated and complex variations of yourself.

Just the other day my 16-year-old sister and myself were sitting quietly in the back seat of the car while the two up front were chatting away. The radio station that was on had been on a commercial break for what seemed like hours, and with eery synchronicity both me and my sister (who I may see two or three times a year since I've moved) anxiously asked for the channel to be turned to actual music. There was something quite comforting about it. Knowing I wasn't alone in my eccentricity and my shared disdain for obnoxious radio commercials, and that I shared that with my sister.

At home, you're among your people and for the first time in a long time you can just...breathe. You don't have to explain your dialect or justify eating grits or white gravy, or my all-time favorite--apologize for being American.

But with each visit, I come to the realization that as much as I belong, I have changed. I'm not better than my people, I've just outgrown them a little. Like your favorite pair of jeans that have been worn in with love and memories, but ya know ya need it's time to say 'goodbye' to.

I'll never say 'goodbye' to family. I love them. I need them. They are what defines me, keeps me, loves me unconditionally. But after the Christmas magic dust has settled, what you're often left with is unfinished business from the past. Hurt feelings, sibling rivalries, unspoken disappointments, and you remember why it is you hug nostalgia so tight. You can shake that snow globe as hard and as often as you want, but those little flecks of white always land resolutely at the bottom.

Going into 2011, I bring with it a new revelation that's taken over four and a half years to realize. I come home to Oklahoma to stay grounded. I live in Canada to fly.

On the eve of my 31st birthday

On the eve of my 31st birthday

I spent tonight like I did last year on the eve of my 30th. In the tub, soaking in lukewarm water and self-pity, staring at my toes and wishing my sorrows would swirl away down into the drain, and into the cold currents of Lake Ontario never to be seen again.

My parents produced an over-achiever who never believes she's accomplished enough with each passing year. They also produced a woman who quickly forgets that wisdom ought to be preferred over youth. This year, instead of stewing over what new age-defying face cream I needed to buy or how many more sports I'd have to play to prove that I still could, I knew I needed to get a grip. And then I remembered how I spent my birthday last year.

I spent it with my brother-in-law, Buck. He's been the subject of a few of my blogs in the past year. On December 14th of 2009, he was bed-ridden in his home with Hodgkin's lymphoma. Each day mattered, and with each day came the hope that his alternative cancer treatment would start to show results. He was probably the most optimistic of us all. Until that night.

I hadn't seen him so helpless to care for himself. I was determined to make the visit as cheerful as possible and brought over my left-over birthday cake from the office knowing what a sweet tooth he had. I cut a big slice for him and poured him a fresh drink pushing it to the edge of the coffee table. Close enough so that he wouldn't have to reach too far and yet far enough so that he would still feel he could do something for himself.

He swallowed it in Buck style. Swiftly and with gusto. Everyone tried to keep the conversation light, but he wasn't having it that night. For the first time since his diagnosis he used the phrase, "if I don't make it," and told us about one of his biggest concerns and wishes. His brother and sisters sat in sombre silence not knowing how to respond. He didn't want to be dismissed or told, "don't talk like that, of course you're gonna make it." He wanted to be heard. This time, the funny guy who couldn't ever get through a meal-time prayer without snickering, wanted to be serious. I knew it and I assured him that his wish would be honoured. A month later when he passed, we kept that promise.

And tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I've got my grip and my much-needed perspective. He didn't live to see his 28th and so I dedicate my 31st to him. I can't light up a room like he did but I'll try and make more fart jokes in his great honour.

Buck and me on my 27th birthday. As always, he stole the show.

A candid Q & A with Adrian MacNair on the Canadian mission in Afghanistan

A candid Q & A with Adrian MacNair on the Canadian mission in Afghanistan

For as long as I've aspired to be a journalist, I've had a morbid desire to be embedded in a war zone. Perhaps I've over-romanticized the picture of the khaki-wearing foreign correspondent with wind-blown hair, a pencil propped behind her ear, and a notepad full of scribbled quotes and ideas. Even still, I want to be in that picture. Frayed edges and all. The adventure and the story calls me.

I was a young journalism student when 9/11 happened and the world began its "war on terror," but the story of Afghanistan had captured my curiosity long before 2001.

I was thirteen and stuck with the awful chore of cleaning out the garage with my dad. We were throwing out trash when I came upon a stack of old issues of National Geographic. The legendary 1985 cover of the Afghan refugee girl with green eyes never made it to the garbage. Struck by her story and her riveting gaze, the intrigue of the plight of the people of Afghanistan has never left me. Neither has the magazine. It currently sits on my library coffee table collecting dust.

A few months ago I learned thatAdrian MacNair, a blogger and freelance opinion writer with The National Post, had been invited to go on a media tour in Afghanistan by the Department of National Defence. Of course I was a bit envious of his opportunity to go, but I was also truly quite happy for him. The mission in Afghanistan has been his informal beat for some time. His style of writing is unapologetic and packs the punch political writers need. And I knew the nerve he writes with would carry him through to his journey in the war zone. I resigned to be satisfied with living vicariously through his experience. For now.

Adrian graciously agreed to let me in on that mild adventure of his for the purposes of my blog and to quell a bit of my curiosity.

Freelance writer, Adrian MacNair, right, decked out in full body armour for trip to Kandahar City

Q: Why did the Department of National Defence invite you on this recent media tour of the Canadian mission in Afghanistan?

A: I was invited by the military because of my profile in the National Post and writing I've done on Afghanistan. But it wouldn't have happened if they hadn't invited Mark Collins from my blog first. He had just had an operation and couldn't go so he suggested me. DND also invited dozens of other journalists.

Q: What was your news angle going in? 

A: I couldn't think of a unifying news angle, other than trying to ascertain the difference between what you hear in Canada and what I would see in Afghanistan. I wanted to find out how much they would sugar-coat the mission progress.

Q: How often did you get outside "the wire?" 

A: Just once in Kandahar, and even then it was in armoured vehicles and entirely segregated from the Afghan populace. Although we were in danger of IEDs, I would say that I never felt in danger on the trip. We were in regular traffic in Kabul, but the capital isn't as dangerous as Kandahar City.

Q: What was it like leaving the surrounding protection of the base? 

A: It would have been more compelling if we were driving in regular cars or walking. As we were in armoured vehicles with a .50 calibre mounted gunner, it didn't feel much like leaving the comfortable security of KAF at all. And truth be told, the food at the forward operating base in Kandahar City was better than KAF.

Q: Were you able to interact with any local Afghanis? 

A: No, unfortunately. It was a huge disappointment and almost made going not worthwhile.

Q: What are the general attitudes of the military regarding our government's decision to cease the combat mission in July, 2011?

A: They're disappointed and uncertain because they like the mission. Most soldiers are having a great time in Afghanistan and they know the excitement is a limited-time opportunity. Every soldier I spoke with was proud of his or her accomplishments and believed in the mission. Having said that, no soldiers would speak ill of the mission. Part of being a soldier means believing in the mission unflinchingly.

Q: Why do you believe it's important for journalists to be embedded in Afghanistan? 

A: It's impossible to get a sense of the mission from Toronto or Ottawa. You have to be there to really understand the pace and the timing and the reason for decisions. You can see how important it is for reporters to be in Afghanistan based on the detainee fiasco from 2007-2009. No self-respecting journalist who had spent any time in the country would waste any time on a non-story like that, and certainly not one as peripheral to the big picture of Afghanistan as that one was.

Q: Did you feel the military displayed a certain level of transparency or did they feed you the standard, fixed, media-friendly soundbites? 

A: There was certainly transparency on certain issues, such as detainees, police training, military accomplishments and objectives, etc. Where they fell short was in giving an honest assessment of the progress of the mission. They were altogether too optimistic, and not honest enough in admitting the hard work that's left. They couldn't admit that Canada is leaving before the mission can be accomplished in Afghanistan. It was the elephant in the room for sure.

Q: What are some of the biggest misconceptions you believe Canada has of its military? 

A: Many people think of the military as a kind of nebulous entity that is one big fighting force. But it's composed of all sorts of different elements: communications, air wing, national support element, infantry, mentoring, etc. Some soldiers were envious I went, "outside the wire," when many of them will never get outside the wire in their entire tour. Another misconception is the level of danger. It's not very dangerous in KAF, and the rocket attacks on the base are so haphazard that the insurgents almost never hit it.

Q: What are the stories of Afghanistan you believe the press has either ignored or missed? 

A: The press has missed out on reporting the mentoring aspect of Canada's involvement. Many stories could be written about OMLT (operational mentoring and liaison team) and their work in the field. The shift in tactics is also really underreported. The kinetic operations (killing insurgents) has taken a back seat to counter-insurgency tactics involving gaining the confidence of the people by identifying the "human terrain." SOF (special forces) is handling the niggling details now.

Q: What surprised you the most about the experience? 

A: I was surprised that the security situation is still so bad. If you need an armoured car to drive into Kandahar City without being murdered, you know the country is still in a very bad situation. It seems a decade away from stability.

Q: Tell us about one of the highlights of the trip for you. 

A: The highlight was probably driving through Kabul. It's a completely different experience to see people in the third world, driving their livestock through the downtown capital, manuvering through traffic composed of vehicles that 99% would not pass a street worthy test. It was my only exposure to the Afghan human terrain, and it was far too brief. Even then we weren't allowed to open our windows, we had to wear ridiculous flak jackets, and our car was armour plated.

Q: What was one of the more sobering moments for you? 

A: Driving in the armoured car to the FOB [Forward Operating Base] in Kandahar was sobering, because it came with the understanding that an IED would likely mean instant death and you would never know what hit you. You'd just be gone.

You can read more of Adrian's blog and see the photos from his trip to Afghanistan at www.unambig.com.

The elephant in Canada's waiting room is pregnant with ignorance

The elephant in Canada's waiting room is pregnant with ignorance

Things keep getting more messy with the abortion question in Canada. In the latest news, a B.C. couple urged their surrogate to abort the fetus because doctors found it was likely to be born with Downs syndrome. Although the surrogate had initial qualms with terminating the pregnancy, she eventually went through with what was likely a second term abortion. 

My personal views on abortion are complicated and can't be boxed into a cozy Christian soundbite. And I don't think I could ever run for political office because I couldn't please constituents on either the right or the left by defining my position. However, what isn't complicated is my tolerance for ignorance on issues like abortion that affect a society at large.

When I learned of recent poll findings that found 79% of Canadians were ignorant of their own abortion laws, I felt compelled to wade into the quagmire that is the abortion debate in this country, or rather, lack there of.

When forming opinions or legislation that defines a person or country's moral code, there's a necessary ingredient that cannot be left out of the mix. Truth. In an op-ed for The Holy Post, I write that the privilege of living in a democracy comes with the responsibility of pursuing truth.

Although the comments on the piece were modest in number, it ended up ranking as one of the most-read articles on The National Post website. I think it reaffirms my opinion that although Canadians seem to care and have opinions on the abortion issue, they don't care enough to really have an intelligent discussion about it.

I am convinced that truth is the irritant that prevents a squabbling young republic from becoming a reckless oligarchy. If we need to bicker a bit more about this subject then so be it. Better that than the chilling alternative.

My indignity for ignorance sparked an interview request from a local talk radio program based on some of the points in my op-ed. Should you care to listen, you can check it out here. 

The dancin' man and me

The dancin' man and me

His clothes are as worn as his smile. He bears scuff marks on both his shoes and his face. I want to ask about the origin of his scrapes, but I restrain. For now. I hear a faint accent of something in his speech and feel that's a safer question to pose. He's from Serbia and appears to be in his 40's. This is a man who has seen conflict. I venture a safe and silent guess he immigrated to Canada to escape conflict, but by the looks of his hardened exterior, he hasn't made a complete getaway.

His name is Jed but I know him as "the dancin' guy," and so does half of my city for that matter. He's got his very own Facebook fan page over 6, 500 adoring and curious fans strong. I've seen him dozens of times gyrating down Main Street in Hamilton, Ontario, but only from my car. I'm giddy his dance steps have finally found their way onto my path and I'm grateful for this encounter as my first sighting of him over a year ago was so unforgettable it was worth noting: 

I have somewhere to be and quickly. But my husband's brother has just been diagnosed with cancer. He is too young to have a staring contest with death. My husband knows this and I feel like I'm losing him to the fog that cancer brings to a family.

I'm losing focus, and driving distracted is never a good thing. In the midst of my own fog, I am jolted by a sight that only my city can bring.

I see a very thin man, dressed in very used clothes, his hands like props in his coat pockets. And I cannot believe this, but he is dancing down the street sidewalk. Alone! I can't see earphones to suggest he's listening to music, which makes the scene even more amusing. He looks like the type of fellow who might not make his rent this month, or who finds his second home at the local liquor store. But he has not a care in the world, and is skipping Fred Astaire style down the the sidewalk. I look to see if passerby will stop and stare. Instead, they just casually pass--him--by.

In the moment it takes my car to speed by, he's gone. But I laugh. Incredulously. And shake my head and continue to laugh. Later, I try to describe the scene to others, but the story falls flat and I'm convinced I was the only audience member for whom the movie was meant. For a moment, life is less blurry and a precious moment of clarity sweeps in. 

In the end, my brother-in-law lost that 10-month staring contest with death. His beautiful baby blues shut forever, no match for the steely gaze of cancer. 

Why does Jed dance? The answer for him is hard to unpack because it's so complex, but for me it's simple--because I need him to.

Too often we write off the dancin' guys in our life because they're a little too eccentric for our straightforward tastes. Their uneven strides don't jive with our careful two-step. But there are days when a polite joke or pleasant company just doesn't cut it for me. I need a guy like Jed to jar me from my senses, to remind me that a joy that lasts despite your circumstances, comes from something deeper and sometimes unrestrained.

I ask about blisters and he waves them off with his hand. Sure he gets them, but they're worth every smile he draws from a complete stranger. A stranger like me.

His vagabond attire seems just a ruse when he pulls out a business card set between the pages of a crusty Gideon's New Testament. I note aloud his unconventional card case and without shame he announces, "I'm a born-again Christian." He tells me that he was given a gift that must be shared and an old Bible memory verse slips through the cracks of my jaded belief: "to whom much is given, much is required."

Before I can ask about the music in his head, the dancin' guy is off again marching to the beat of his own joyful drum, leaving me behind in his sonorous trail to pause and to smile.

You can learn more about The Dancin' Guy and his story at www.dancinguy.com.

I am Anchorwoman, hear me read well from a teleprompter

I am Anchorwoman, hear me read well from a teleprompter

What good thing could come from the outskirts of Winnipeg? Turns out, the newly-announced anchor for Global TV, Dawna Friesen. She's an inspiration to female journalists on both sides of the border that humble beginnings and hard work can launch you into success. And she's more than just a pretty face. She's been in the trenches, has earned her story-telling stripes and her seat at the desk.

With CTV's Lisa LaFlamme also set to replace the veteran anchor, Lloyd Robertson, the face of television journalism is changing. Literally. And I'd say, she's never looked better.

Three cheers for women leading the field of journalism--where a sharp wit, a listening ear, and a little lipstick can go a long way.

Shhh...If you listen carefully, you can hear Ron Burgundy's tears falling into his smarmy glass of Scotch.


Distinguished Alumni Award 2009 - Dawna Friesen from Red River College on Vimeo.

I'm a wanderlust-er

I'm a wanderlust-er

I just finished reading the Travelers' Tales 2010 edition, The Best Women's Travel Writing. It's a collection of women's personal travel essays from around the world. Their goal is to inspire other women with these true stories of journey and unbeaten paths to the heart.

Well, 27 essays and a trip to Italy later, I am inspired. It's now my goal to be published among the pages in one of their next editions. A year ago, I would have thought this notion too lofty, but after taking the writing course in magical mountain world and having some of my own personal essay writing critiqued, this is one dream that seems attainable. Sometimes, you can touch a cloud without it eluding your grasp.

I also discovered that I have a penchant for a bizarre German phrase called "wanderlust." Elisabeth Eaves, one of the writers featured in the book, describes wanderlust as "the irresistible impulse to travel," and often by yourself. And I get it, but many people don't. I can't tell you how many times I've seen eyebrows raised in both bewilderment and judgement when acquaintances, friends, and even family learned I made the journey to Italy alone.

Marisa Handler, another "crazy traveler" featured in the book, answers those that don't understand her wanderlust with a question:
How to explain the wanderlust that draws me, time and again, to the solo journey? That I'm forced by circumstance to be totally open? That there is no refuge from sheer experience? That every day is a new adventure, every chance meeting a wee blessing? 
By traveling alone, I traveled without distraction. I met people I wouldn't otherwise meet, held meaningful conversations that would've never been spoken, and had experiences that were selfishly all mine to keep as my beautiful secret. And although I did spend a week in Abruzzo with nine other women, I made efforts to get away by myself, to see the world sharply through my solo lenses.

On one particular afternoon in Santo Stefano, I took a walk down our magic mountain to the base for lunch at a charming family-owned restaurant. Two of the women taking the same writing course invited me to join them for lunch at their table. I declined and dined alone, ordering my meal using only Italian for the first time that week. I was feeling accomplished and very worldly as I relished the home-made pasta while tapping away at my laptop with writing ideas. I sipped my vino bianco slowly and measured the room. The couple dining next to me didn't look local, but they did look interesting. Eventually, their British accents gave them away and gave me permission to slip from a wannabe Italian back to an American woman.

Their names were John and Shirley. They lived outside London, England most of their life and on a whim, decided they wanted to retire to the countryside in Italy. At 60-something years a piece, they bought over a 100 acres of land (or was it 10,000?) complete with an olive orchard. The land and the orchard demands much attention, and they spend most days and nights working it, just the two of them, exhausted, with not a bit of farming experience between them. Their fixer-upper house came without a kitchen and because this is Italy, it took over a year for it to be installed. The first kitchen they ordered was lost with not much concern from those responsible for its misplacement. If this is the retired life, I want nothing to do with it, but John and Shirley laugh and shrug it away. They can't afford to hire help and I ask how long they think they'll be able to keep this up. "Well, until we pop our clocks, I suppose," Shirley says without blinking. I have never heard this expression for dying used before and find it totally amusing and worth adding to the tap-tapping in my notes.

I will never forget those unassuming adventurers as long as I live, and I probably never would have met them had a traveling buddy demanded my attention and conversation. Thanks to Travelers' Tales and my otherworldly 12-day Italian experience, it will be tough to convince me to travel the world again through a buddy system, or to ever apologize again for having the experience of a lifetime, would you believe it, all by myself.

"To have imagination is to inevitably be dissatisfied with where you live...in our wanderlust we are lovers looking for consummation." ~Anatole Broyard