A rough essay I've pitched on only children and Christmas

My only adult Christmas

It's during the holidays that only children realize all children with siblings envy them. Being told we are "spoiled" becomes part of Christmas thereafter.

Growing up, I imagined people with siblings believed my parents hired a dump truck to deliver my presents. This myth of spoiling is highly inaccurate (the truck is, at most, a compact pickup) and leads to a grudge that remains between onlies and siblingtons, one that somehow locks only children into childhood. And yet we surely age. I'm a 34-year-old only adult. I have thinning hair, a mortgage, but don't have a wife or children. I still go home for Christmas. And while you may have envied my childhood Christmas, I'm quite certain the adult experience isn't something you want.

But let's examine that grudge. Even the person behind Christmas itself, Jesus, is caught in it. Debate rages in Christian Internet chat rooms whether the man was an only child or not, the implication being, clearly, that even Jesus can't be so great with that hanging over him. Here's a secret: Elvis, Frank Sinatra and Isaac Newton were all only children, as is Condoleezza Rice, Lance Armstrong and Robert De Niro. You don't hear them bragging though—they all fear the grudge.   

Christmas as an adult, of course, is different than as a child. On paper an only adult Christmas looks promising. Holiday mirth without brothers and sisters and the countless others they spawn, or marry, or yell at, sounds manageable. I must admit after talking to frustrated friends, post-Christmas, I've sometimes felt lucky.

True, only children don't have to deal with drama that siblings bring to households. It's also true that most of the sibling-related holiday drama I've experienced has been as a guest in other people's homes. I go to these homes often at Christmas. Though most believe we're spoiled as kids, only adults are correspondingly pitied as under-familied, and thus invited into friends' homes where we're given gifts (luckily we have that truck) and treated as distant sons or daughters.

But away from these warming cameos in other families, my Christmas as an only adult is hard to share. Few understand it so I don't talk about it often. For one, it's tough on the ego. Few adults must downgrade themselves when informing people of Christmas plans with family like I have to. Unless you know me, your second question about Christmas is always, "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" My disappointing answer: "No, I'm an only child." Perhaps that's why some adult only children have taken to calling themselves "singletons."

For two, while there is a tome of academic research on children without siblings, which has mostly deduced that only children are normal, an optimistic search will find about five pages on only children when they become adults. So few people think about only children as adults that I just go with the flow and say nothing as well. At no time of the year is this more apparent than at Christmas.

Take this year, for example: My Christmas was spent over three days at the modest country home just outside of Guelph of my two late 60-something parents. I brought no one with me; no one came by to visit; there were no children, which I'm realizing, is critical for Christmas. And I haven't explained the experience to anyone.

Without a brother or sister, I'm the only guest who ever sleeps at my parents' place. It is thus known at all times where I am (my old bedroom) and what I'm doing (sitting in it). This lack of autonomy and boundaries sees me revert to my adolescent only-child strategy—bunkering in said room and reading for countless hours on end. Not exactly Christmassy behaviour.

Because I don't have a brother who had kids early on, or a sister who's a bigger screw-up in her career, or some variation therein, I have a lot of pressure. My parents, thankfully, don't push family or career expectations on me, but the lack of siblings to gauge my life-progress sees me do it to myself, by comparing myself to absolutely everyone. Christmas only amplifies this feeling that I don't have what I should. The quiet house thus feels like my fault (no wife or kids). Not exactly a happy Christmas sentiment.

But most of all, Christmas is a reminder for the only adult like me of what's around the corner. More than 44 per cent of Canadian children born today will grow up without siblings, a trend toward only children that is increasingly echoed in the U.S., Asia and Western Europe. Few talk of what happens when these kids hit their 40s or 50s, as I soon will, and have to care for their elderly parents—and have no siblings to share the load with.

Coming home at Christmas, then, I can't help but notice my parents aging, their mobility dropping, and realize the clock is ticking on my freedom. Both my parents now have replacement titanium joints, arthritis, and CPAP-machines to treat apnea. Both tire quickly. Both struggle up stairs with grunts and groans. And that isn't going to change.

I once thought the perfect Christmas was having the perfect family, as in a family with siblings, money, happiness. But then I experienced Christmas from the other side—the nuclear family in full, Three Mile Island glow: Blond children with upper-middle class parents singing carols around the family piano, laughing-all-the-way, ha-ha-ha! If I were Norman Rockwell I'm sure I'd quietly have Christmagasmed in the corner, but I found the experience strangely terrifying.

What I've realized I love about families at Christmas is the acceptance of things not so perfect, of finding happiness in spite of life's challenges. My only adult Christmas is the same, even though it's something I struggle to share. Don't envy it. But then don't pity it, either.   

Why Should You Care About Attawapiskat?

 Published on Huffington Post Canada, December 22, 2011:

You can see them coming easier than a hailstorm in Saskatoon. One of my favourites is the cock-and-bull Ezra Levant uttered in his recent Sun TV editorial. If the man has a gift it's parroting reactionary Canadians. He definitely nailed the "It's not my fault" grumble I've heard so often in the wake of Attawapiskat.

I know you've heard these self-exonerations lately; maybe you've even thought or said them yourself. If you haven't be honest and ask yourself if you agree with statements like, "this mess in Attawapiskat isn't my fault" or "I wasn't here when all this started" or "Why should I feel guilty they can't manage their finances?"

We are a nation that says sorry with saccharine regularity but we balance this with a love of blame. Boy, we blame with the best. Of course we wake periodically from our blame binges and realize this has done nothing for the problems we have tried to blame our way out of. Then we hit the bottle again.

Attawapiskat is the portmanteau of Canadian blame (quick quiz -- when was this quote uttered in Attawapiskat? "In some cases, we have 12 to 17 people sharing a (small) bungalow without indoor plumbing." That's right, 1992). And the longer this continues the more neurotic, blame-happy and internationally noticed Canada becomes for all of this .

What do we do?

First, let me tell you a story. My parents own a cottage near Lake Huron in Ontario (those are both aboriginal place names, by the way). In my adulthood I've learned the cottage is on Saugeen First Nation traditional territory (and my childhood home, near Kitchener, is on Six Nations of the Grand River traditional territory, though not a single teacher mentioned this or showed me this sort of map of my country).

When I was a boy I'd ask my dad why one part of the beach near our cottage was free and one part cost money to visit. "That's the Indian beach," he would say of the latter and then say nothing more. He rightly assumed my young mind had absorbed Ontario's subliminal messaging that "Indians" were people we just didn't discuss outside of movies, even though they were all around us.

I tell this story because I'm no different from any other non-aboriginal Canadian. My ancestors are from somewhere across an ocean. What this settlerdom did to a place with nations already established, well, was largely hidden from me in school. But my parents' cottage and home shows that though I had no personal part in Indian residential schools, the Royal Proclamation, broken treaties, the hanging of Louis Riel, or the forced relocation of Inuit people in the 1950s to solidify sovereignty in the Arctic, I am still rather linked to it all.

So I am involved just like other Canadians. I won't presume how you feel about this, but I'll tell you that in some twisted way I hear my inner Ezra Levant when I think about it. This isn't my doing. I didn't want this to be how my country treats people. I didn't want there to be a piece of law that still uses the word "Indian" and a government agency overseeing that law whose minister can be ignorant of quite a lot but still keep his job.

Following Ottawa's official apology in 2008 for residential schools (more than 10,000 proven claims of sexual abuse, and more than $2.8-billion in compensation), the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC) was created to offer all of us, aboriginal and non-aboriginal alike, a way out of our blame quagmire.

That's what happened in South Africa with the commission ours in Canada has been modeled on. I'm assuming that's what someone in Ottawa thought should happen here, too. Of course South Africa's commission was better attended by all involved and probably better funded.

Mandy Wesley with the TRC says she realizes it will not achieve reconciliation in its five-year life. The hurdles are bigger and more elementary than that, after all. The first is to get people to know the Commission exists, she says; the second is to make them care.

When non-aboriginal people do come to one of the hearings, three of which have been held so far, she says they say things like, "I had no idea that it went on for so long." Indeed, Canada's last residential school closed in 1996. Wesley says:

It is a big challenge to compel people to care. How do you compel them to care? You explain the reality. Aboriginal youth are the fastest growing population in Canada. In terms of the success of this country, it's to everyone's benefit if those youth succeed, to the economy of Canada. That's why they should care -- for the greater good of Canada.
Wesley, who is Cree, says education is likely the root of the hostility towards Attawapiskat. She notes Manitoba is the only province with mandatory education on the history of residential schools in its curriculum.

Why is that? Well, Ezra Levant is on to something: It's not my fault my education system tells only part of my story. But until our curriculum changes and our children learn the less happy truths of Canada's history, or until more of us decide to be like Bob Rae and go see Attawapiskat for ourselves, it's up to us, non-aboriginal Canadians, to step away from blame.

Another way would be to take advantage of the TRC. Until then, as Dullah Omar, a former Minister of Justice in South Africa said of the truth and reconciliation process there, all Canadians will not have "come to terms with their past."

Attawapiskat isn't a 'blame game'. It's a blame prison.

You can see them coming easier than a hailstorm in Saskatoon. One of my favourites is the cock-and-bull Ezra Levant uttered in his recent Sun TV editorial. If the man has a gift it's parroting reactionary Canadians. He definitely nailed the "It's not my fault" grumble I've heard so often in the wake of Attawapiskat.

I know you've heard these self exonerations lately; maybe you've even thought or said them. If you haven't be honest and ask if you agree with statements like, 'this mess in Attawapiskat isn't my fault' or 'I wasn't here when all this started' or 'Why should I feel guilty they can't manage their finances'?

We are a nation that says sorry with saccharine regularity but we balance this with a love of blame. Boy, we blame with the best. Of course we wake periodically from our blame binges and realize this has done nothing for the problems we have tried to blame our way out of. Then we hit the bottle again.

Attawapiskat is the portmanteau of Canadian blame (quick quiz--when was this quote uttered in Attawapiskat? "In some cases, we have 12 to 17 people sharing a (small) bungalow without indoor plumbing." That's right, 1992). And the longer this continues the more neurotic, blame-happy and internationally noticed for all of this Canada becomes.

What do we do?

First, let me tell you a story. My parents own a cottage near Lake Huron in Ontario (those are both aboriginal place names, by the way). In my adulthood I've learned the cottage is on Saugeen First Nation traditional territory (and my childhood home, near Kitchener, is on Six Nations of the Grand River traditional territory, though not a single teacher mentioned this, or showed me this sort of map of my country).

When I was a boy I'd ask my dad why one part of the beach near our cottage was free and one part cost money to visit. "That's the Indian beach," he would say of the latter and then say nothing more. He rightly assumed my young mind had absorbed Ontario's subliminal messaging that "Indians" were something we just didn't discuss outside of movies, even though they were all around us.

I tell this story because I'm no different from any other non-aboriginal Canadian. My ancestors are from somewhere you have to cross an ocean to get to. What this settlerdom did to a place with nations already established, well, was largely hidden from me in school. But as my parents' cottage and home shows, though I had no personal part in Indian residential schools, or the Royal Proclamations, or broken treaties, or the hanging of Louis Riel, or the forced relocation of Inuit people in the 1950s to solidify sovereignty in the Arctic, or ... well, I'll stop there ... I am still rather linked to it all too.

So I am involved just like other Canadians. I won't presume how you feel about this, but I'll tell you that in some twisted way I hear my inner Ezra Levant when I think about it. This isn't my doing. I didn't want this to be how my country treats people. I didn't want there to be a piece of law that still uses the word "Indian" and a government agency overseeing that law whose minister can be ignorant of quite a lot but still keep his job.

Following Ottawa's official apology in 2008 for residential schools (more than 10,000 proven claims of sexual abuse and $2.8-billion in compensation, and counting), the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was created to offer all of us, aboriginal and non-aboriginal alike, a way out of our blame quagmire.

That's what happened in South Africa with the commission ours in Canada has been modeled on. I'm assuming that's what someone in Ottawa thought should happen here, too. Of course South Africa's commission was better attended by all involved and probably better funded.

Mandy Wesley with the Commission says she realizes it will not achieve reconciliation in its five-year life. The hurdles are bigger and more elementary than that, after all. The first is to get people to know the Commission exists, she says; the second is to make them care.

When non-aboriginal people do come to one of the hearings, three of which have been held so far, she says they say things like, "I had no idea that it went on for so long." Indeed, Canada's last residential school closed in 1996.

But, "It is a big challenge to compel people to care," Wesley says. "How do you compel them to care? You explain the reality. Aboriginal youth are the fastest growing population in Canada. In terms of the success of this country, it's to everyone's benefit if those youth succeed, to the economy of Canada. That's why they should care--for the greater good of Canada."

Wesley, who is Cree, says education is likely the root of the hostility towards Attawapiskat. She notes Manitoba is the only province with mandatory education on the history of residential schools in its curriculum.

Why is that? Well, Ezra Levant is on to something: It's not my fault my education system tells only part of my story. But until our curriculum changes and our children learn the less happy truths of Canada's history, or until more of us decide to be like Bob Rae and go see Attawapiskat for ourselves, it's up to us, non-aboriginal Canadians, to step away from blame.

One would be to take advantage of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Until then, as Dullah Omar, a former minister of justice in South Africa said of the truth and reconciliation process there, Canadians will not have "come to terms with their past."

Pitching magazines: a lot of work

Pitching a magazine story is, in many ways, harder than writing a magazine story. The following pitch has been through countless drafts and has been sent to countless friends for comments and criticisms. And despite all of that, I have no idea whether any of the editor's I've pitched will bite. So, enjoy a pitch for a story that may never be written.

***

Query: One child fallacy

More than 40 per cent of children born in Canada today will grow up without siblings, the highest percentage in our history. This trend is heading upward and it is global. In the next few years the planet's average family size will dip below two children, meaning that for the first time ever, only children, singletons, the unsiblinged—call us what you like—will be the worldwide norm. What's amazing about it all is that so many cultures have arrived at the same family size at once, whether by force in China, by economic necessity in Singapore or by the designs of lifestyle or debt-load in the Americas, Europe or Japan. And yet the family our societies, and we as individuals, hold up as ideal—the one we put into our sitcom plots and our Canadian Tire Christmas commercials, and even the ones our governments continue to design services around—remains a family with multiple children. Only children are soon to be an unseen and unconsidered majority, and families with several kids will be like ideal ghosts, haunting us. 

Only children in Canada are familiar with this distance from normal. In a feature for --------, I propose to tell the story of my trip to China this summer. It was a voyage of personal discovery exactly one year after I'd found out why—and there is almost always a why to an only child's story, whether tacitly understood or silently carried on one's body, like a freckle. For me, as long as I can remember, my mom answered such questions with white lies. When I finally found out the truth, that ---------- meant my childhood was sibling free, my world—already in a sort of giddy free fall, with several failed relationships and near constant relocations in search of "a new start"—felt unliveable. For three decades, like a ventriloquist or a chameleon, I'd impersonated the person I felt Canada told me to be, a "normal" person with siblings and, critically, without the baggage of isolation and the awkward social skills living in a home without other children will give you. Two years into my 30s, I finally realized it. I'd continually failed. 

My journey, then, was to give up on this lifelong quest to be normal and discover who I really was. From where I stood a country like China, with 90-million only children thanks to the one-child policy created in 1980, was the right place for such renewal. I went hoping to connect with others who understood isolation the way I did, and who knew otherdom marked not by your skin, as is the case with race, but by your own marking of yourself as different. I also went because I felt an only child would be, well, normal in China. What a strange feeling that would be, I thought. Once there, however, I found all sorts of conflicting emotions. I found people like Vicky, an interpreter who I employed to help me search for an only child who was isolated and relatively poor. In other words, kind of like me. "In China this is not logical," Vicky yelled at me through my cellphone. "In China, only child is lucky child." Later, I found Lindsey, born in the mid 1970s and thus likely the former child-crazed China's only only-child born before the one-child policy. In Hong Kong I found Gus, whose grandfather had multiple wives and dozens of children in mainland China, but who himself is a singleton without designs on marriage, children or even a relationship. In Beijing I found Molly, who at 30 lives with her mother and has little in the way of a social life. And I found people like Ian, a Beijing club owner who is one of many young Chinese who left for Vancouver five years ago but who are now returning. 

As we talked, all of us confided a similar but complicated feeling: We'd wanted brothers and sisters, but, given the chance, we all probably would live our lives the same way again. It wasn't the epiphany I'd hoped for in China. But though I haven't confided this to friends, or to the people I met, it gave me a sort of imperfect, but still satisfying peace. I grew to realize that we are all just stories. Our identities are tales and we are authors. For too long I wrote my story as being a guy outside the norm; I wrote myself as wrong. From now on, I intend to write my story of who I really am: An interesting guy living in a society that doesn't think people like me are ideal—even though, deny it as Canada does, we are everywhere. Hopefully, for the exploding ranks of only children being born in Canada today, it won't take three decades to figure that out. Yet I think the onus is still on only children to sort things out for themselves. Even though we will become the majority, we will, I think, always be viewed as weird.