WRITE NOW

Christmas ornament It’s that time of year when some of us feel compelled to put forth our version of an inspirational message. In times past, I’ve been inspired by both baser and higher impulses. I’ve written about gratitude on more than one occasion, although, truth be told, I find the collective impulse to remind ourselves and everyone else to be grateful to be a little, well, grating. Most of the people I know are well aware of what they have; it doesn’t mean they can or should ignore what they—what we all—might be missing.

On the other hand, words of doom and gloom seem particularly inappropriate this time of year. Not that it’s a happy time for many people I know. I have a number of friends, some virtual, some not, who have faced enormous health and financial challenges this year. I hurt on their behalf. Hell, I hurt on behalf of all the fearful people in the world, myself included.

In my case, the fears are both ordinary and extraordinary, micro and macro. I worry about growing old and becoming infirm, sure. I don’t like the idea of being alone or otherwise disconnected.

Most of all, though, what I fear is an increase (or no visible decrease, at any rate) in illogical, closed-minded intolerance. I call it non-thinking, the visceral reactive state that has far too many people clinging to their beliefs as if they were life preservers. It’s difficult for me to understand how, in 2017 (the twenty-first century!), whole swaths of folks adhere to a values hierarchy that has little to do with morality. They hold fast to outdated or outright false Biblical, biological, and generational maxims at the expense of anything approaching humanity. How else does a cruel, narcissistic adulterer become a touchstone for so many? How else does false equivalency gain credence, while “fake news” is defined as anything remotely critical, regardless of objectivity? How can groups of people be dismissed because of who they are, what they believe, or how they love? How do we live in a world where dictators are heroes and heroes are maligned?

But doom and gloom don’t move us forward any more than do lectures on gratitude or syrupy seasonal wishes. Which is why, after cruising through holiday messages of yore, I’ve gone back to a statement I penned several years ago and lifted from my book Hope in Small Doses. It’s a sort of declaration, not of war or even of independence but of resolve. I have to revisit it from time to time, but now it’s part of my DNA. If it suits or serves you moving into 2018, then by all means, let this be my gift to you.

small christmas tree “I choose hope, at least in small doses. I choose to assign myself a purpose, and embrace the journey that leads to the fulfillment of that purpose. I acknowledge the risk of stumbling along the way, of never completely accomplishing what I set out to do, or of discovering that I inadvertently changed course. I accept as a working theory that humans live their best lives when they ascribe meaning to their lives. I take as a matter of faith that it is within each of us to live meaningful lives, to love, to interact, to connect in fellowship; and that how long our reach, or wide our influence, is far less important than the path we set for ourselves. I realize I will always feel some disappointment and may come to conclusions and discoveries late in life that I wish I’d reached earlier. But so what? That only means I’ve been growing and learning. It also means I’m human…and being fully, completely human is always going to be my most important accomplishment.

I don’t propose to know how hope will continue to fit into my life. I only know that in some small measure, I want it. I need it. I deserve it. We all do.”

Happy holidays whoever and wherever. Here’s to a bright 2018.

Back when I was writing about my experience as a grieving widow in the public eye, I described a phenomenon called the “circles of affectedness.” I noted how after 9/11, many of us organized ourselves (or were herded) into groups or categories according to how directly we were impacted by the terrorist attack. “The closer to 9/11 one was, either by geography or personal loss,” I wrote, “the more special one seemed to become.” At the same time, I picked up on a perhaps unconscious competition taking place among the survivors and family members, egged on by a media machine hell-bent on finding and promoting the most tear-jerking stories possible. Who was most affected, a widow with small children, a mother who’d lost two sons?

This competition offended me. I hurt and in my grief, I sometimes imagined no one could understand how deeply. But that meant I couldn’t fully understand how someone else might grieve either — a survivor, an observer, a citizen. Who compares levels of sorrow anyway?

Humans, it would seem.

Americans in particular are all about comparing and contrasting the good, the bad, and anything in between. Size, shape, age, education, financial status/situation, upbringing, gender (traditional or atypical), achievement, social media presence, your mom’s meatloaf recipe must be measured: You name it and we will hold it up next to something similar and assess its comparative (and often highly subjective) value.

Product promotion is dependent on comparison. Advertising routinely points out the flaws in the competition along with the benefits of the promoted product. Entertainment pitches for books, TV scripts and film concepts high and low often reference what succeeded before but with a twist (“like ‘The Good Wife’ but set in a hospital”). More and more publishers and agents ask authors to suggest five titles their new book most resembles.

The man in the White House thrives on comparison. He appears to favor superlatives; whatever he references is the “biggest,” “tallest,” “smartest,” “highest,” “most,” or, “worst,” or, conversely, the “meanest,” “tiniest” or “least.” It doesn’t matter whether his frame of reference is a policy, a television show, an individual, or an insult, and it never matters whether his claim is true. This is the new reality in which we find ourselves.

The great job, the superior child, the perfect body and the ideal marriage may be media inventions, but they don’t keep us from staring at our friend’s Instagram pictures and wondering why our lives are so dull? We are doomed to fall short.

Which brings me back to comparisons of suffering.

It seems most people who share their stories of despair are looking to instruct or connect or reach out to others going through something similar. Some seek to gather strength in shared experiences. The #MeToo hashtag is meant to demonstrate how wide-reaching harassment is and how easily women and men have accepted such behavior as acceptable. In fact, many women I know are hesitant to share their stories because they aren’t as horrendous as someone else’s. “I was followed but I wasn’t attacked.” “Catcalls aren’t as bad as groping.” Here too, the need to compare affects what we admit, even to ourselves.

Some who post their stories seek sympathy or attention. Some want advice; others really don’t. Still others seek self-expression or catharsis. For some, typing the words on a screen seems easier and more immediate than talking to a person, assuming there’s anyone to talk with. For others, posting is the only option. Let’s face it; we’re confronting a retreating government and reduced support in real life. Where can we turn except to our virtual community?

Social media allows us to share our sorrows as well as our triumphs. In that respect, it can provide a valuable service. But misfortune doesn’t need to be a competition any more than accomplishment does. It’s not about who does it best or feels it most. It’s about our shared humanity.

I love Canada. I’ve biked in Vancouver and strolled through Butchart Gardens. I’ve driven around Nova Scotia and up to Prince Edwards Island. I even studied one summer at Université Lavalle. We were two Midwest high school girls whose young chaperone ran off the second day. Suddenly unsupervised, we promptly cashed in our lunch stipend and used the money to visit bars amenable to underage drinkers where we hung with the local boys. A great way to learn colloquial French.

But I digress.

I’ve thought about living in Canada. Where would I head? The bustling province of Ontario, which holds nearly forty percent of the nation’s population? The fast-growing west? Somewhere in between? It’s a big country. Surely there’d be room for me.

My comfort level with the United States has been dropping precipitously. Even before the presidential election unleashed an undercurrent of ugly and entitled resentment, I considered an exit strategy. Blame the lack of gun control. How can anyone trust a nation so cavalier about mass shootings? Where regulations are loosening in all but seven states? Where the NRA releases thinly veiled calls to violence with every new ad? Where I can’t go into a Starbucks without worrying about getting caught in the cross-fire generated by misunderstanding or long-standing grievances?

Canada, with its open spaces, clean air, hot young leader and atmosphere of tolerance, beckoned. Cold, sure, but that’s what parkas are for. I wanted Canada. But did Canada want me, a semi-retired writer with hope in her heart?

The most common way to gain permanent residency is via Express Entry. In 2015, the Canadian government instituted the program to seek out skilled workers, entrepreneurs or investors. Six factors determine eligibility: education, language, employment experience, age, arranged employment, adaptability. One’s eligibility is calculated on a points system per an initial evaluation offered on the government website. If you reach 67 out of 100 points, you may be a candidate for immigration. No guarantees.

I felt cautiously optimistic. I had no job waiting and let’s face it, age will never again work in my favor. Yet I have several things going for me. I speak excellent English and passable French. This is point-worthy, non? An advanced degree? Mais oui. And I am nothing if not adaptable.

But as I continued to wade through the evaluation, my spirits sank. Employment experience means work history relevant to future employment, something I can’t predict. Would I be willing to invest millions, launch a startup, buy and manage a farm. Sadly, no. I couldn’t even point to family in Canada. No one waited to welcome me with open arms, save a couple of friends.

I saw the handwriting on the wall. Don’t apply. Tu n’es pas éligible.

Undaunted, I found the name of an apparently reputable law firm online, one of literally hundreds that offer free or inexpensive consultations for would-be immigrants. I caught the attorneys during a busy time. Unsurprising, given how appealing Canada looks to the rest of the world right about now.

Over three days, three attorneys were able to give me between one and four minutes apiece. Briskly, politely, or regrettably, they told me my age and lack of ties to Canada counted against me. Just what a gal needs to hear.

The third offered a thin lifeline. I could try to fill out something called a Generic Application as a self-employed person. Again, no guarantees, of course.

Nevertheless, I felt buoyed. Yes, my income is negligible and my royalties paltry, but I have listed myself on my U.S. tax forms as a writer for more than a decade. I have two published books and countless published essays to show for it. Je suis écrivain!

Have I participated in world-class cultural events, asks the application form? I’ve spoken at Harvard and signed books at Princeton. These are world-class universities. Tell me this counts.

Never mind: I’ll fill out the form and send in the fifty dollars. Meanwhile, though, I am compelled to search out other creative, original, and unique ways to convince Canada I can contribute to its culture. For instance, I could:

set my new novel in Canada
hire a Canadian editor
write for a local paper
write a new verse to the national anthem (although it’s fine, really)
write about moving to Canada
write a reality show in which a sophisticated older American woman selects from among a group of eligible Canadian men vying for her hand in marriage.

O Canada, I pledge my love and allegiance. Please let me in.

	facebook
	instagram
	bookbub
	linkedin
	goodreads

Nikki Stern

Holiday Messaging

O Canada, Let Me In