Laura Zera

Shelter from the Storm

A few months ago, I hosted a writer who wished to remain anonymous. And they’re baaaack!

It feels fitting to publish this guest post on the heels of the inauguration ceremony, as the author expresses many of the feelings I’m experiencing, and I’m sure others are, too. We’ve entered a frightening time that conjures up memories of a different era. Fears and concerns that would have seemed absurd a year ago weigh on us. We’re not in Kansas anymore. Perhaps to reclaim our sense of safety, we must build an emotional shelter.

I don’t really have a great track record with storm cellars (that’s what we call them where I’m from, like we’re all Dorothy trying to get out of the storm). My earliest memory of them: Mommy let go of my hand. Mommy look at the stars! Pointing. Staring. Loss of balance. What I can only describe as a large thump. Nothing. Lights, whirring, panic, my mother, my grandfather, concern. Waking up in a hospital bed.

That was my grandfather’s storm cellar. The next one was different, but I was terrified of it at first. It came to my attention during the second or third serious tornado warning of my life, when I was ten or eleven.

It sat at the edge of our property line and belonged to the nice old lady who lived in the house next door. She had what looked like was once a beautiful yard, with an enormous gazebo where she had housed dozens upon dozens of birds.

The shelter was big, almost the size of my grandparent’s living room. It was spartan; not a thing in it, except what we carried down with us. Everyone brought pool chairs and loungers and whatever they used as seating for their porches, and we sat and waited. My dad stayed up, listening to the radio in his work truck to get a sense of how close the danger was. He’d come down intermittently with news and then go back up to keep watch. We all talked and waited, and talked some more, until eventually the warning got called off and we trundled out of the cellar and went on with our lives.

Something about storm cellars changed for me after that. I no longer viewed them with fear.

I don’t remember if the old lady was still living in the house or not when I started treating her storm cellar as my playhouse. No, more like a clubhouse, my secret hideout spot. My mom told me not to go down there. That it wasn’t safe and it wasn’t ours. But I didn’t listen. On hot summer days, it was tundra-like refuge where I let all my worries melt away. I tried putting up posters, but there was no tape built in this world that would hold paper to cinder block. One of them was some variation of the “Hang in There” kitten poster we all had but would never cop to owning. I thought it fitting for the storm cellar. It’s probably still down there, rotting away.

I’m not sure when dad let slip that the cellars were probably built less as storm shelters and more as fallout shelters. I filed that away as fact, until it crept over me as a revelation: These things were made to preserve the life that many people, even in a small town like mine, thought they could lose at any moment.

I hadn’t given any thought to, much less stepped foot in, either of those cellars in over two-and-a-half, maybe three decades; I live in a two-story house, in a suburb with many more suburban houses, and there’s nary a storm cellar in sight. I hadn’t given much thought to the need for shelter in case the one over our heads ceased to be. I hadn’t thought about those nights in the shelter, huddled with friends and neighbors and whoever else dad could pull in to safety, when no matter what happened, we’d at least have each other.

The safety of the shelter came calling to me last night, though. Or maybe I went searching for it. It felt like an anchor in a sea of despair, a place to go when the worst came plummeting around us. The idea of having a hole to bury myself in and escape with my friends and loved ones appealed to me in ways it hadn’t since my childhood.

The imaginary monsters I was escaping back then pale in comparison to the monsters I am seeing now. I feel like escaping. I feel like sheltering in place. The storm cellar was a place I could do both. I don’t have that now.

Where do I go? Where can I hide? Can I provide an escape for my daughter? Do I want to? Shouldn’t I be teaching her something different? How to stay and fight?

What can I do in a world that is all chaos and vitriol when I am just now learning to use my own voice and fight?

Does someone have a storm cellar I can borrow? And will we call it something different, if and when that time comes?

Photos courtesy of Unsplash (Tornado by Tulen Travel; Lightning by Jeremy Thomas; Destruction by Jordy Meow)

Please feel welcome to use the comments space below to share a coping strategy, or just to vent, rage, laugh or cry.

Sometimes You Need Medication: A Response to 2016

By Laura Zera 15 Comments

This year has been an endless stream of sucker punches: every time we think it couldn’t get any worse, BAM, uppercut to the jaw. I barely have any teeth left.

No matter your political views, news sources and musical tastes, it’s hard to evade the gloom that has descended around the globe. And if you’re predisposed to or are a chronic depression sufferer like me, then these are exceptionally wonky-inducing times. Yes, wonky, which, by the way, encompasses the following:

feeling like you should do something – anything – to improve the global/local/family situation, but you are paralyzed and/or exhausted
feeling agitated but overwhelmed by global/local/family events
feeling numb, like you’re in a movie (“surreal” was Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Year for 2016, because of the serious spikes in look-ups that followed major events)
feeling like you want to hide under the bed covers until ___________ <insert year>
waking up in the middle of the night, sure that the end of the world is imminent
feeling sensory stimulation overload – too much noise, lights, smells, information
feeling like Grumpy Cat

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll know I’ve written quite a lot about causal linkages and complementary treatments for depression: nutrition, gut microbes, yoga and meditation, neurofeedback, exercise, blue light therapy, vitamins and supplements, you name it. All good stuff. I work all these angles for my own depression.

However, sometimes you may find those treatments help you stay in minimally functioning mode, but they don’t get you over the hump and back to better living.

What hump, you ask. Ahhhh. See, this is where I lost track of the bouncing mental health ball myself until last week. The hump is the creep. Whaaaat? (I’m not messing with you, seriously.)

There’s only one creep at this party (okay, yes, there’s two…). The creep we’re talking about is the onset of a cycle of depression. Even for the most aware and experienced, sometimes you get stuck on the hump and depression creeps up.

These are the times to look at medication. If you’ve been on it before, do you need to go back on it? If you’re currently on it, do you need to adjust the dose or try something else? If you’ve never been on it, but nothing you’re trying is working and you are feeling SO WONKY, do you need to explore medication as an option?

The reason I’m posting about this is simple: I’ve been talking to doctors and therapists about my brain for 30 years, and I’ve been on antidepressants for 20. I’m pretty darn self-aware. There ain’t nothing that’s my first rodeo (except an actual rodeo). And yet, I still don’t always notice when I’m stuck on the hump. Depression can be such a creep.

A medication adjustment came up as a side conversation in a recent visit to my doctor. Not because I said I was feeling wonky. Not because I identified that I needed help. Because I ate a protein bar, went for a three-mile walk and had such a severe sugar crash in the middle, I had to summon an Uber driver to take me back to my car. (Bonus: he gave me a Snickers.) Low serotonin is linked to low blood sugar. Whaaaaat? YES. I was surprised by this, even after all of my research and I-am-my-own-guinea-pig experiments.

My doctor increased my medication dose, and a week later, I feel SO MUCH LESS WONKY.

Yoga, meditation, healthy food, supplements, exercise: yes, yes, yes, yes. Any other alternative and complementary therapies you use to combat depression: yes, yes, yes, yes. We are warriors, all of us. But even the strongest warrior can only handle so many body blows. Sometimes the most effective and compassionate solution is right in front of us and we don’t see it. And that, in a nutshell, is 2016.

Wishing you a heart-centered, joy-filled, small-humped 2017.

Much love,

Creative Commons images: Grumpy Cat by Gage Skidmore; Yosemite by Luke Pamer; warrior by Henry Hustava

Don’t Be So Fast To Write Off “Healing Feeling” Work

By Laura Zera 10 Comments

Sometimes in my Desire Map workshops, a participant will share that they are “not a healing feeling type.” And yet, there they are. At the workshop. Which is all about feelings.

I’ve sort of learned to expect this response at least once in a while. While I wouldn’t reduce the vibe of my workshops to a cliché like “kumbaya,” we do, in fact, do a lot of meditation, we talk about levels of energetic vibration and manifestation, we hug it out, and usually, someone cries (you can count on me for that). So yes, it’s safe to say they fall into the category of “healing feeling.” And so how do we end up with the occasional cynic in the mix? The taskmaster among the daydreamers? The realist among idealists?

It could be that a friend invited them. Or dragged them along with the promise of martinis afterward. It could be that someone paid for them to go. Or, it could be that they really needed to be there, something deep inside them told them so, and they honored that inner voice.

And so they showed up. They parked some of their disbelief at the door, and some of it came inside, sat tidily on the front end of their yoga mat next to their BPA-free water bottle, and eyed the rest of us with a measure of suspicion.

I totally understand this response. Sometimes the healing-feeling community can be like a big, wet tongue down your throat when all you really wanted was a peck on the cheek. But sometimes, this response comes from resistance.

Resistance to allowing that yes, you have old pain. It’s buried, but it’s there, like a thistle in your gut. Not life threatening, but not life enhancing, either.

Doing healing-feeling work can drudge up a ton of pain. And insecurity. And truths about yourself that might be difficult to face at first. It takes stamina and focus to do the work. And if you’ve been taught all your life that to be strong means to move on, to get over it, to forget about it, to GET IT DONE, well, then, it makes total sense that your world and this other messy world are at odds. The latter might even feel self-indulgent. Annoying. Possibly pathetic.

But I’ll tell you what I know. The folks who hold healing-feeling work at arms’ length are often the ones who need it most. They haven’t moved on. They aren’t over it. They have not forgotten. And it is holding them back from getting it done (“it” being all the super fantastic things that are possible, if you’re open to trusting that the universe has your back).

As humans, we aren’t good at stuffing our emotions down. We actually get over things by feeling—and then objectively naming or labeling—all the feels. Anger. Depression. Guilt. Shame. Frustration. Just stating, “I had a shitty childhood,” isn’t enough, and is way, way different from acknowledging how that makes you feel. Still. After 40 years. From allowing in all the feelings that you never stopped to feel about that shitty childhood. From punching a pillow. Having an ugly cry. Writing in your journal. Forgiving that person. From giving yourself grace, and radical self-compassion. And from the staggering freedom that comes on the other side. You will be like a fucking bird with a jet-pack booster between your fucking wings. I know this. I’ve felt this. I have seen it happen in others. In the cynics and the doubters, and in the people who were so, so tired.

Freedom.

My put to you is this, doubting, tired cynical, efficient, capable, strong humans who rose from the goddamned ashes like a phoenix (I’m not saying this facetiously; I believe you and applaud you): don’t write it off. The healing-feeling work. Don’t shut the door on it. Because all the hard stuff you’ve overcome? Your triumphs over adversity? They brought you this far, and you can go farther. You can do more. And you know exactly what I mean, because something deep inside you is telling you so. (Nope, it’s never going to shut up. Not while you still have a breath left, anyway.)

Giving healing-feeling work a try doesn’t mean you have to sign up for a workshop. It isn’t an automatic three-year program (two if you go straight through summers). You can do it by yourself. You can do it with another person (someone with a license or certification of some sort, preferably). Or, you can do it in a group. Come, be the realist among the idealists. We love your spunk. Because my bet—and I’ll put money on this—is that you’re not over whatever it is that you’ve tried so hard to avoid and that you keep telling yourself you’re over. We’re here for you, in our stretchy pants and headbands, ready to listen, to bear witness to your pain, to share your humanity, and hug it out when you cross over to the freedom.

We see who you are, when the pain falls away and pools around your feet. We see your light.

You’ll see it, too. It’s waiting for you. By the fireplace, with a S’mores and a cup of chai. How can that be a bad thing? Right?

I thought so. Kumbaya, brothers and sisters. We are you.

If this resonates, let me know in the comment section below. Or share the post. Or try some healing-feeling work. xo

Images courtesy of Unsplash

Six Things South Africans Do Differently From Americans

By Laura Zera 21 Comments

South Africa clocked 348,646 visits from American tourists in 2013, and given the lure of a favorable exchange rate, screaming airfare deals, and winery tours and wild animals, there’s probably no chance of those numbers dropping off. South Africans have also gained a reputation as some of the friendliest people in the world, and well worth getting to know better. So, beyond calling a barbecue a “braai” and having enough diversity to warrant 11 official languages, here are a handful of less obvious socio-cultural traits that set inhabitants of the Rainbow Nation apart from their U.S. visitors.

I guarantee that 5 out of every 6 people here ironed today

South Africans are committed to ironing their clothes. School uniforms, t-shirts, jeans. Women iron. Young men iron. Everybody irons. Whereas Americans have mastered the art of buying wrinkle-free fabrics, and are willing to risk looking rumpled when they don’t, South Africans still place an immense value on precision pleats.
A bullet hole to enhance the view

Americans carry guns to exercise their constitutional right. South Africans carry guns because they have a legitimate reason to be concerned for their safety. Regularly featured on lists of countries with the highest murder rates, South Africa is also struggling to contain climbing numbers for armed robberies, burglaries and carjackings. If you’re planning to join the millions of international tourists who visit each year, have a read of these smart safety guidelines issued by the British government so you can be armed with knowledge.
Unlike the dull walking (or standing, or walking and then standing) style of American protests, when South Africans want to demonstrate, they do a special dance called a “toyi-toyi.” Usually accompanied by music, toyi-toying is a peaceful form of protest, used when the masses want to draw attention to unfavorable government policies or social issues. And in this hilarious step-by-step instructional YouTube video, you can learn to toyi-toyi too.
I have absolutely no idea…

Despite temperatures that regularly hit 90 degrees Fahrenheit in many parts of South Africa, refrigerating dinner leftovers is considered optional. Americans fret over bacteria to the point of compulsiveness, but South Africans are more cavalier, leaving pots of chicken, rice and veg out overnight without a second thought.
Founded in California, and purchased by Facebook in 2014, the Internet-reliant, multi-media instant messaging service WhatsApp claims its largest user base in South Africa. So while Americans text away—either enjoying plans with unlimited texting, or free-text utilities like iMessage—South Africans, many of whom rely on pre-paid phone plans that charge for texting, have jumped on board so heavily that they’ve racked up a 78-percent user adoption rate, compared to 8 percent in the United States.
Hoot if you like strawberry!

South African motorists allow other drivers to pass them on the highway. In America, signs that read “Keep Right Except to Pass” go largely ignored. In South Africa, not only will drivers move to the shoulder if necessary to allow faster cars by, it’s standard etiquette for the driver who did the passing to flash their hazard lights twice to say thanks, something Americans can only dream about.

For all the South Africans reading this, PLEASE add on! I’d love to hear from you.

The Dangerous Way “Collateral Beauty” Homogenizes Grief

By Laura Zera 17 Comments

The movie Collateral Beauty is out soon. It’s a story about a father (Will Smith) who loses a child, and how his friends (Kate Winslet, Edward Norton et al) try to help him move beyond his grief and get back to living. I have a friend who lost a child, and she has a few things to say about that premise.

She asked to post anonymously, and I agreed, because her message is important. Our society is awkward around grief, sometimes showing disdain, and we make it difficult for those who are grieving to give themselves permission to do so on their own schedule (a good book on this is The Long Goodbye by Meghan O’Rourke).

Here are my dear friend’s intelligent, emotional—yes, it’s okay to show emotion!—and wise words on grief and Collateral Beauty’s flawed assertion.

Okay, can we talk about Collateral Beauty? Like, beyond the whole “Oh, look. There’s another sappy movie out in time for Christmas?” Beyond the “Will Smith can do better” convo.

Maybe it’s the “bereaved parent finds meaning again” trope that I want to complain about. Or “the death of a child changed the father’s/mother’s entire personality” trope. Or it’s Hollywood’s version of what it means to be a bereaved parent–what that looks like, what that should be–that I want to get to the heart of.

Despite what this movie trailer is trying to portray, time and love don’t heal all, and it’s both dangerous and upsetting to buy into this. It’s dangerous because this homogenized version of grief tells us there’s a right way and a wrong way to grieve, that there’s a hierarchy to grief, and that some people’s grief should be prioritized over others. That’s bullshit.

I’ve been at the grief game for a while now. I’m out of fingers and toes to deal with all the loss I’ve experienced over the years. So, hopefully you’ll believe me when I say I know a thing or two, and that there’s one truth about grief: There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. (Okay, obviously there are a few detrimental ways. Please don’t abuse yourself, physically or with drugs or alcohol, or others in the process. I could also write a lengthy dissertation on blame and grief.)

No one should tell you how to grieve. Especially Hollywood.

There’s a moment in Collateral Beauty where Edward Norton says, “I just want my friend back.” Well, your friend wants his daughter back, you dick, so how about you STFU, sit back and just be in his airspace until he comes to you? Why’s that too hard for movies and TV, or, hell, even our families and loved ones to get?

I remember being obvious about my grief to an EMS guy in a Starbucks once, and feeling horribly guilty afterwards for being obvious. But now I know it wasn’t my fault; it was society’s for telling us there’s a time and a place for grief, and it isn’t out in the open.

Fuck that. The place for grief is wherever we need it to be.

I remember another moment, two days after my son died. I saw a boy just a little older than my son, a cute moppet with blonde curly hair, coming out of a Starbucks (I have way too many moments at my local Starbucks). All I wanted was to feel the weight of a child in my arms. I can’t tell you what compelled me, but I asked his mother if I could hold him. She agreed. It was exactly what I needed.

Why can’t we be like that as a society all the time? Why can’t we ask for what we need in our grief? Why can’t people around us help us fill those needs instead of interjecting their own? Why can’t we grieve out in the open; even if the grief isn’t recent, even if it isn’t exactly ours? I watched the Gaycation documentary regarding the Orlando shootings recently; there was a person not directly attached to the tragedy who cried about it, and then apologized.

That’s such a wasted gesture. And I’ve done it. Multiple times. Because we’re taught by unrealistic depictions of grief in the media that it needs to be hidden. We’re also taught that if we’re not over it by some prescribed amount of time, there’s something wrong with us. That, too, is bullshit. It’s six years and change since my son’s life slipped through my hands and I’m not over it. Not by a long shot. I’m okay with that.

Do Not Apologize For Your Grief! Ever!

Don’t apologize, even if you think someone has it “worse” than you. A helpful part of my first bereavement support group meeting wasn’t that I shared my story; it’s that I heard everyone else’s. We all revealed different shades of pain and hurt and remorse. Some were sharper and closer to the surface than others. It didn’t make my pain any more or less painful. It just made it more relatable.

Keeping grief close to the vest, or homogenizing it in movies like Collateral Beauty, invalidates it. It makes us think we have to go to horrible depths to make it valid. I remember a story about a person who lost his son. His wife turned to drugs and alcohol. Why? I don’t know for sure. But I can theorize plenty. Maybe she’d never seen grief up close. Maybe she’d never been exposed to grief in a way she could digest or understand. Maybe the only versions of grief she knew were dramatized or homogenized, and her grief didn’t feel that way and she needed something else to help with the pain.

There’s a moment in the trailer in which the Time character tells Will Smith he’s missing life, and I wanted to yell a hearty “FU!” at my screen. He lost his daughter. He’s allowed to miss out on capital “L” life, capital “M” moments. Every day isn’t fucking Hallmark cards and roses when you start L-I-V-I-N again. The fact that the Dickens-esque Christmas-Carol-type characters in this movie are trying to convince us otherwise is horrible. I don’t care if Death is Helen Mirren. And let me tell you something, if Love was to suddenly embody a person, said person would not be Kiera Knightly, no offense to her (adored you in Pride and Prejudice and Bend it Like Beckham, Kiera! Call me).

The only part of the trailer I liked was that Will Smith’s character wrote letters, telling Death, Time and Love what he felt and what he was going through, because at least he found an outlet for it. (If you haven’t found an outlet for your grief, and you need someone to share it with, someone who will do whatever you need to find a balance with the grief, there are outlets.)

If everyone around you is telling you to do things JUST SO, I’m here to tell you to do what you need to do. As long as you aren’t hurting yourself or anyone else, what you need to do with your grief is the right fucking call.

If you are grieving a loss, no matter the size, grieve. Make a scene in a Starbucks. Hold a stranger’s child (you know, if they let you), hold onto a stuffed animal, scream into the void, cry really ugly tears. And whatever you do, don’t apologize for it. Your grief isn’t wrong.

Do you have opinions on how our culture deals with grief, or have you experienced a time when you found it difficult to express your grief? Please feel free to share below.

– Images courtesy of Unsplash

When Your Mother is Crazy, What Do You Do?

By Laura Zera 8 Comments

Without fail, each month one of my site’s top search phrases is “when your mother is crazy,” or “how to deal with a crazy mom,” or something similar. (Even more popular is “does strawberry flavor come from beaver butt,” but that’s a whole other story.) It seems like there are a lot of people struggling in their relationship with a mother who has a mental illness, just like I did at one time. I’m writing this post (and stuffing it full of love) for them. For you.

A few things about this topic that I know to be true:

First and foremost: You are not alone.
Your mom may not realize she has a mental illness or is behaving irrationally
It’s difficult to get a person with a mental illness diagnosed. In most states and provinces, they don’t have to get checked out unless they’re deemed a physical threat to themselves or others, and getting to that stage usually requires police intervention.
Whether your mom gets diagnosed or not, it’s a good idea for you to find a professional to talk to. Start with a family doctor or school counselor. You don’t have to share everything that’s going on if you don’t want to, just that you need a referral for a counselor. If you’re worried about money, look for a resource that is free or low cost. The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) is a good group for support resources, and they have local chapters, too. Some organizations can offer referrals for low-fee therapy, like NW Alliance for Psychoanalytic Study and Seattle Psychoanalytic Society and Institute.
You may never get an answer to “what’s wrong with my mom?” and it’s not always black and white anyway. So, that leaves an open question hanging in the air, but it doesn’t have to stop you from living your life and planning your future.
Your mother is doing the best that she can, given her circumstances.
Even with a mental illness, your mother is an adult, and is responsible for herself. You’re not responsible for her or her actions.
Don’t let the stigma of mental illness prevent you from getting help. Also, it’s not uncommon for a child of a mentally ill parent to experience a mental illness. For example, I suffered from depression; it started when I still lived with my mother (who has psychosis). I’ve had years of therapy. Besides helping me heal from the illness, it helped me grow as a person in a zillion different ways. I consider therapy an investment in yourself.
You deserve self-care. If you have a bad day at home with your mom, take care of yourself. Go for a run. Make a painting. Watch a movie. Hug your pet.
Your mother loves you, so hold on to that. It may seem the farthest thing from the truth sometimes—or a lot of the time. But her love for you is there, deep in her heart, hidden by “the crazy.” This I know for sure.

Here’s a list of additional resources I created a few years ago, so, possibly a bit outdated, but hopefully still helpful. And for a more narrative perspective on growing up with a mentally ill mother, this essay by Jeri Walker is a gem. ♥

Photos courtesy of Unsplash

Let’s Explore Your Hate. Yeah, You.

By Laura Zera 12 Comments

What’s going on in America today?

I don’t want to beat around the bush in this blog post, but nor am I going to get up in your face and challenge your beliefs with my own. I only want to acknowledge that if we look at the “envy-judgment-hate” continuum right now, we’ve swung hard to the “hate” side.

I know I could be talking to the wind here, but I want to see if I can stick with plain speak and reach a few people. Maybe someone who has swung farther than they normally go. Or maybe someone who’s willing to play along to see what comes up.

I have some questions for you. That’s all. A group of questions. No judgment. We’re going to do some brain surfing, dudes, so hang loose.

First one: Have you identified any people or groups you hate? Be honest. You don’t have to report your answers to anyone. This is only for you.

Second, have you recognized that it’s hate? Like (in Valley-Girl mode for a sec here), “oh my God, I am totally feeling hate right now! That’s what it is!”

Third, when you identify who/what you hate, how does it make you feel? And be aware, you may get kind of an adrenaline rush when you’re all like, “Fuck them and the horse they rode in on!” But after that. After the adrenaline is gone. When you’re alone. Do you feel kind of icky inside? As in, way different than when you get a kiss from your baby or a greeting from your happy dog? And I don’t mean over stupid things, like “I hate Rum Raisin ice cream.” No. I mean the important stuff. The stuff like this: “I hate Muslims” and “I hate white people.” That stuff.

Fourth, if you hate a certain group because of how (in your opinion) they act—for example, “Mexicans* are lazy”—do you know for sure it’s true? I mean, do you absolutely know for sure? And even if you know 100 Mexicans, and they are all lazy as shit, is there a chance that can mean every Mexican is lazy? Or even the majority of them? (*Substitute “Mexicans” with any group on your list.)

Last one: If you think about what’s in your heart, would you say it’s mostly full of love or hate? Don’t just think about how you feel toward your girlfriend or your grandpa or your dog or the San Francisco 49ers; think about all the things. Everything you encounter in a day, including bad drivers. Do you feel mostly love, or do you feel mostly hate?

Oops. Psych. I’ve got a bit more. However you feel at the moment—full of love or full of hate—is it how you want to feel? Is it who you want to be? Is it the best thing for you? Because you deserve the best thing for you. You really do. I’m not pulling your leg.

Peace out, dudes. I’m going to go eat an Egg McMuffin or something.

I said you didn’t have to report your answers, but if you have something else to say, don’t hold back.

Images courtesy of Unsplash

Why Your Canadian Music Friends Are A Lot Sad

By Laura Zera 10 Comments

“We have some very tough news to share with you today, and we wish it wasn’t so. A few months ago, in December, Gord Downie was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer.”

This was the opening for the email that fans of Canadian rock band The Tragically Hip found in their inbox on May 24. As the news spread through that country’s media outlets, an entire nation wished it wasn’t so.

The music world lost some greats in the past year—Scott Weiland, Glenn Frey, Phil Taylor and Lemmy Kilmister from Motörhead, David Bowie, Prince—and millions of global citizens mourned together. Canadian music lovers can at least take small solace in the fact that Downie, the band’s incomparable front man, is far from gone: on Wednesday, The Hip announced what will be an epic farewell tour for this summer.

There’s another thing about Downie and The Hip that’s different, too: They belong to Canada, fully, completely. And Canadians like it that way.

While The Hip toured internationally over their 32 years together, their fame never grew to the depths of other acts from the Great White North. Think Neil Young. Bryan Adams. Rush. Alanis Morissette. Drake. Justin Bieber. But that doesn’t mean the band hasn’t won the unwavering loyalty of millions in its home country. It’s not so much cult-like as it is one big, happy Hip family. As Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau tweeted after yesterday’s cancer announcement, “Gord Downie is a true original who has been writing Canada’s soundtrack for more than 30 years.”

Downie has the genius creative knack for infusing The Hip’s songs with Canadian culture, which is what has made him both a national treasure and a beloved backyard-barbecue beer buddy, at least in spirit. There are lines like “in the forget-yer-skates dream” (from It’s a Good Life If You Don’t Weaken), something any Canuck who has ever figure skated or played hockey in the pre-dawn hours understands, and “Bill Barilko disappeared that summer” (from Fifty Mission Cap), a reference to the Toronto Maple Leaf player’s 1951 death in a floatplane crash. For a plucky country that rails against being lumped in with America, Canada finds cultural representation in The Hip, and its cultural archives at least partly in The Hip’s discography.

Then there’s the matter of seeing The Hip live. Who says Canadians are polite and buttoned up? Downie vibrates with energy on the stage while legions of Hip fans scream out lyrics with him. He sweats, a lot. The audience sweats, a lot. And it’s all-the-way-round love.

Full disclosure: I’m a die-hard fan, and have sweat love with The Hip on a number of truly memorable occasions. There was the time I hollered the lyrics to Fireworks with a guy wrapped in a Canadian flag at Seattle’s Paramount Theater.

If there’s a goal that everyone remembers
It was back in old seventy two
We all squeezed the stick and we all pulled the trigger
And all I remember is sitting beside you

There was the time I jumped up and down like I was on ecstasy (I wasn’t) to the song Poets at Burnaby’s Deer Lake Park.

And porn speaks to its splintered legions
To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions
While aiming at the archetypal father
He said with such broad and tentative swipes why do you even bother?

And the time I belted out At The Hundredth Meridian with a six-foot-four giant in a Habs jersey (who was on ecstasy—he hugged my husband) at The Showbox in Seattle.

If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me
If they bury me some place I don’t want to be
You’ll dig me up and transport me, unceremoniously
Away from the swollen city breeze, garbage bag trees
Whispers of disease and the acts of enormity
And lower me slowly and sadly and properly
Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy

There’s more, but you get my drift. The lyrics are smart. The Tragically Hip is Canada: Canada Post issued a stamp with them on it in 2013. And The Hip’s visionary leader, Gord Downie, is a poet and a gentleman. He’s a friend and a team mate. He’s a living legend who, much to the deep despair of many Canadians, is dying, as we just learned.

We are hurting for him, we are hurting for his family, and we are hurting because we can’t imagine Canada without him. Fans will celebrate his enormous presence and contributions at some point, like he no doubt wants us to; he did, after all, write the lyric “no dress rehearsal, this is our life.” But not yet. Not yet.

Photos by Francis Zera / ZeraPhoto

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