1. People who experience oppression, marginalization, criminalization, vulnerabilization, and vilification, are frequently discussed by the bureaucrats who are paid to manage them, the researchers who are paid to study them, and the social services who are funded to better them.
2. All of these people—the bureaucrats, researchers, and social service workers—operate under the more-or-less sincere belief that they approach the populations they manage, the cases they study, and the clients they support, in a caring manner.
3. Because of this, the people doing the talking are always coming up with new ways to talk about people that appear to be more sensitive or woke or humanizing, and less judgemental or derogatory. However, because the oppression, marginalization, criminalization, vulnerabilization, and vilification all continue despite the deployment of new labels, stigmas and biases then attach themselves to new seemingly-more-value-neutral terms. This cycle creates an ever-expanding market for new terms.
4. Folks like Peter Conrad and Joseph Schneider have tracked some of this in their explorations of how hegemonic social discourses moved from speaking about deviance to speaking in medical terms in the mid-to-late twentieth century. Things previously considered badness under the Christian morality that dominated Canadian society were rebranded as sickness in the post-Christian secular state. Thus, the immoral, vice-ridden sinner was rebranded as the “alcoholic” and the same became true of the “drug addict.”
5. The transition from the language of sin and vice to the language of addiction resonated a great deal with kind-hearted people who were trying to emphasize the human dignity and worth of the people they cared for and about. Instead of being a value judgment about a person’s character, addiction became a medical condition requiring the same kind of sensitive care and treatment as other medical conditions.
6. However, the medicalization of deviance was, simultaneously, the medicalization of social control. The transition from Christianity to secularism (ever-always an incomplete transition and one that may yet prove to be a temporary blip in Western statecraft) created a crisis for state power. Previously, Christian morality provided the moral underpinnings required to justify the use of force on the bodies of those who were considered problematical to the trajectory of the racial-capitalist state. The police, and other violence workers of the state, were justified in using force upon deviant bodies. After Christendom, the discursive apparatus of health replaced that of Christianity to justify forcing those considered deviant (now sick or ill or addicted) to do what they did not want to do, to go where they did not want to go, and to be where they did not want to be.
7. What vanishes from the now hegemonic dispositif of health is any kind of serious analysis of or engagement with oppression. Hence, also, its model of care lacks any truly liberatory praxis. I don’t want to overstate this—there is, of course, a continual process of subversion, co-optation, and hybridity (as per Homi Bhabha), taking place here. Nonetheless, it remains true that healthcare replaced Christianity as the moral discourse justifying the use of force on others, and the structures of oppression more generally, because it was more not less effective.
8. As a result, the same stigma began to accumulate around the language of “addiction” and “the addict” that had previously accreted around the terms used to describe “sinners,” “boozehounds,” and “junkies.” Consequently, “addiction” language quickly and easily became the discourse deployed by carceral Christianity and the forces of state violence.
9. As stated above (point #3), this inevitably occurs when people change their words but do not change their praxis. Social service organizations that have proven beneficial to maintaining the trajectory of the racial-capitalist status quo are particularly adept at constantly changing their language to reflect whatever cotemporary “evidence-based best practices” are trending—without modifying their polices, procedures, and actual practices in a meaningful way. Here, Gramsci’s notion of the “passive revolution” is relevant. Apparatuses are transformed due to pressure from below, but they are transformed in such a way that the power and priorities of the ruling classes are maintained or strengthened.
10. Research into the dynamics of what we call “addiction” have highlighted how much of our response to “addiction,” is unhelpful or even actively harmful. We now know that “the opposite of addiction is connection,” that harm reduction approaches are more successful than abstinence-based programs, and so on.
11. Therefore, instead of speaking about “drug addicts” or “drug addiction,” a lot of healthcare-oriented service providers began to use the language of “substance abuse.” This raises the odd philosophical question regarding if it is possible for a substance, like Adderall, to be “abused” but, more to the point, it still makes care-providers view the people they claim to care for as abusers. Consequently, healthcare providers now speak of “substance misuse” and “people who misuse substances.” They do this to try and avoid the not-so-subtle hint of moral condemnation that keeps creeping back into their language (because it turns out that a lot of what people thought was Christian morality is simply the bourgeois morality of racial capitalism).
12. Speaking of “people who misuse substances” raises the not-so-easily answered ethical question of what counts as the proper use of a substance and inevitably requires us to examine the power dynamics that determine who has the authority to decide what counts as use or misuse (the violence workers of the state? The doctors who prescribe medications under the law? people with lived and living experience?).
13. Is it misusing a substance to purchase and then smoke fentanyl because you have chronic pain and used to receive a prescription for Oxy-80s from your family doctor but now doctors will not prescribe narcotics like that for your pain and you have been flagged as “pill-seeking” because you continued to try and receive that medication (on which you now have a biochemical dependency—see point #18 below—which was created by a family doctor)?
14. More to the point raised above (see point #10), is it misusing a substance to take it to soothe your pain and briefly experience the kind of comfort, reprieve, and feelings of self-confidence or belovedness you have not been able to experience anywhere else? Perhaps there is a cost to seeking a reprieve via that substance… but does that mean I am misusing that substance? After all, most everything under the regime of racial capitalism comes at a cost to us (something sex workers have continually reminded us about when they have highlighted how sex work is work).
15. Therefore, care providers who are also more engaged with anti-oppressive practices (although see #7 above for how even this language is deployed in social services), have stopped using the language of “addiction” and instead speak of “self-soothing behaviours,” or “compulsively self-soothing behaviours.”
16. At this point, it’s important to observe that we all engage in self-soothing behaviours and do so, more-or-less compulsively, depending on what other supports and avenues we have to being adequately soothed by other people or a diverse number of things or activities.
17. To say that “the opposite of addiction is connection” is to highlight how much more compulsive our self-soothing becomes when we not only experience loneliness but are also abandoned by others—and most especially by those who should have cared for us or who explicitly profess to care for us (see point #2 above) but who fail to do so or who actively harm us instead.
18. To highlight this now is not to take away from the fact that biochemical dependencies can develop in very material, embodied ways, in relation to what we refer to as “addiction.” However, the language of “addiction” is selectively employed in such matters. I do not, for example, speak about being addicted to my anti-depressant, although a biochemical dependency exists in relation to this chemical intervention. I am urged to take my medication regularly to (amongst other things) avoid a painful, difficult, and mentally distressing withdrawal process; but people “who take drugs” are said to be addicts in the throes of addiction because they, too, seek to maintain regular doses of their meds. In my case, regular use is mandated by a doctor. In the second case, the use is said to be a compulsive craving. Often, it should be noted, for the very same chemical.
19. To this point, it is interesting when we speak of chemical interventions as “medications” and when we speak of them as “drugs” or, more generically, as “substances.” What often makes a chemical a “drug” instead of a “medication” is not the actual substance of the drug but whether it has been produced or acquired in a criminalized manner. For example, Adderall and Vyvanse, being virtually indistinguishable from crystal meth, are regularly acquired via both legal and criminalized channels. But if I get them from my doctor, I am taking medications. If I get them outside the Salvation Army, I am using drugs. Why are medications things that are “taken” but drugs are things that are “used”? I believe this subtle linguistic difference reveals a moral judgment.
20. Furthermore, the study of how our biochemistry changes in relation to our compulsive forms of self-soothing tends to focus almost entirely on matters related to chemically-induced forms of self-soothing and have less to say about other forms (although diet may be an exception—we know, for example, that our gut microbiome can learn to crave high-fat and high-sugar foods—foods regularly consumed as a form of self-soothing—so that we, ourselves, end up craving more and more food of that sort once we eat a certain amount of it because the bacteria in our gut craves those foods and tells us to crave it, too).
21. This is largely because some forms of compulsive self-soothing are socially accepted, sanctioned, and encouraged, while other forms are not. Workaholics, for example, are generally rewarded not only with wealth and power but also with high status. They accumulate both goods and goodness.
22. In 2000, The Onion published an editorial with the headline, “I’m Like A Chocoholic, But For Booze,” and this satire succeeds, like other brilliant forms of satire, because it reveals something true that we often overlook.
23. Whether or not a compulsive form of self-soothing is considered an “addiction,” has a lot to do with how that form of self-soothing impacts a person’s ability to function in ways that are deemed appropriate for them within the place they have inherited in racial capitalism.
24. In fact, our society has a high tolerance for compulsive forms of self-soothing that may cause problems for someone in their personal life, but which don’t interfere with that person’s ability to contribute to, or not interfere with, the trajectory of our status quo. Workaholics and Chocoholics have already been mentioned (points 21 and 22 above), but one can also think of people who compulsively watch pornography, or “wine moms,” or hardcore fitness freaks, or, more generally, our cultural dependence on caffeine (capitalism makes me wake-up feeling like shit… caffeine helps me perk up and makes me more functional as a wage-labourer).
25. Porn and alcohol are good examples that illustrate this point. Porn viewing, no matter how compulsive, is accepted if it doesn’t interfere with your work time and your ability to pay your bills. But if it interferes with those things, then it becomes an “addiction.” Same for drinking alcohol. Drink as much as you want, as long as you contribute to the system and don’t become dependent on the system. If you become dependent, well, now you’ve got a drinking problem.
26. This is also why the very same drugs, even when they are criminalized, are treated very differently depending on if people who hoard wealth or if impoverished people use them. Rich people take massive amounts of cocaine but, for the most part, this does not interfere with their ability to accumulate capital and advance the trajectory of the status quo. However, when impoverished people take the same amount of cocaine, this can genuinely disrupt their ability to work for wages, pay their bills, and accumulate credit-debt via the designated channels. Thus, the police focus on impoverished cocaine use and the rich are, by and large, left alone.
27. In other words, under racial capitalism, “substance misuse” or “addiction” more generally, is taken to be a form of compulsive self-soothing that interferes with one’s ability to perform the role one is expected to take in relation to one’s race, class, gender, ability, culture, and nationality.
28. More specifically, “addiction” and “substance misuse” are labels that are applied liberally to forms of compulsive self-soothing that transform a person into a real or potential obstacle to the smooth functioning of the trajectory of the status quo of racial capitalism.
29. This is part of the reason why, on the ground, people frequently choose to proudly claim labels that sensitive workers avoid. They recognize that the prettier sounding names that care providers give them are just masks covering the same old oppression. And so, just as feminists sometimes reclaim the “B” word and Black folks sometimes reclaim the “N” word, sometimes those whose medications or means of producing and procuring their medications have been criminalized, reclaim names like “junkie” or “crackhead,” or “waste case.”
30. Ultimately, this reminds us, liberation is less about labels and more about praxis. Which isn’t to say that words don’t matter—words, after all make worlds—but if the world that those words are making or remaking is the exact same world that abandoned us to die in the first place, well, that’s a problem that we can’t just talk our way out of.
31. In summary, the language of addiction (just like the language that came before and after it) is morally judgmental language deployed in an inconsistent, selective, and biased manner. It masquerades as a form of care but, in actual practice, further strengthens the hold of racial capitalism over our lives. But, just as the opposite of addiction is not abstinence but connection, so also the road to wellness is not recovery but liberation.
32. A good first step on that road to liberation is decriminalization. As the Adderall/crystal meth example reminds us (see point #19 above), most of the harms we try to reduce in relation to “street drugs,” are produced not by the substances themselves, but by criminalization. This has also been demonstrated in countries that have decriminalized drugs that are criminalized in Canada (Switzerland, Portugal), and it has also been demonstrated in innumerable studies, including several that have taken place in Canada.
33. The opposition to decriminalization, despite the overwhelming amount of evidence that supports it, reveals the extent to which “addiction science” and abstinence-based programs are still rooted in bourgeois Christian notions of “right” and “wrong.” The transition from “badness” to “sickness” (point #4 above), did not change anything fundamental about how oppressed people are treated, viewed by others, and made to feel about themselves. It did not change anything fundamental about how they are disciplined, punished, oppressed, and abandoned unto death.
34. This abandonment unto death is explicitly encouraged in abstinence-based programs that deliberately withdraw support from people so that they can “hit rock bottom.” For many people, rock bottom is six feet underground in a pauper’s grave. This is a vivid example of how the language of care is applied to death-dealing practices.
35. If our way of caring for people is killing them or exacerbating their suffering and contributing to them dying premature and preventable deaths, then we need to find other ways to care for people.
36. If I am trying to understand how to engage in a truly liberatory praxis, then I need to understand why I think the way I do about morality, about ethical issues, and about what I consider to be “right” and “wrong,” “okay” and “not okay.”
37. If I am trying to understand how to engage in a truly liberatory praxis, then I need to ask others (and myself!): What gives you life and affirms the life that is within you? What contributes to your sense of self-worth and belovedness? What eases your pain? What comforts you? What do you know that I don’t? (And what do I know that others don’t?) Where do you feel like you can relax? Where do you feel connection and belonging? Where do you feel at home? How have you been betrayed? What can I do that would make a meaningful difference to you? How can we get through this together?
38. Asking these questions doesn’t mean I cede my own agency to others. It doesn’t mean I just agree with everything that anyone says to me. It doesn’t mean that I refuse to set any boundaries. It just means that I come to others with a genuine openness, with a transparency about my own values and preconceived notions, with a willingness to learn and be transformed in ways that sometimes feel uncomfortable (or even wrong!) to me, with a faith in others and their abilities to identify their own areas of need, and with a genuine desire to be useful in ways that others identify as useful.
39. Note that this is very different than coming to people and saying, “You have (or are) a problem and I have (or am) the solution!” (The view expressed by countless White saviours and addiction workers.) The fact of the matter is that the oppression manufactured by and for racial capitalism is a problem for all of us. Mutually liberating solidarity—which is something we can only create together—is, in my opinion, the most hopeful way out of the mess that we all find ourselves in.
40. If this feels like I have drifted rather far from my thesis question (what do we talk about when we talk about “addiction”?), that’s kind of the point. Go and do likewise.

Downpression

To say “I am cold” needn’t mean “I am suffering,” I told myself ten years ago while pushing a double-seated stroller along unplowed sidewalks and over barricades of ice and slush thrown up by the plow. I was on the way to school and daycare before turning the opposite direction and walking a few more kilometres to work. The wind, it seemed, was always in my face in those days, except when it rushed in from the North like a wild thing carrying a storm. However, to say that I knew which way the wind was blowing, didn’t mean that I knew anything at all about the wind. For, as I learned once I started being cold without suffering, the winter wind is an especially mischievous, exuberant, and amoral being. The winter wind loves to play. He revels in being himself.

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Well, my monthly reviews fell by the wayside this year, but I did continue to track my reading and viewing habits. In 2024, I read 125 books, watched 60 movies, and watched an additional 33 documentaries. The full list is provided below but first, the “best of the best” and the “worst of the worst”!

THE BEST OF THE BEST

BEST BOOKS

The last few years, instead of picking a single book as the “book of the year,” I’ve picked an author whose multiple books had a profound impact on me. This year, however, there really is one book that has influenced me and stayed with me more than the others. That book is The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power by Shoshana Zuboff. It’s a thorough and damning study of the rise of the big, big tech companies (specifically: Meta, Apple, Microsoft, Amazon, and Alphabet or MAMAA as they’re now sometimes called). Not only this but it looks at the consequences of the hegemony achieved by MAMAA and the impact this has on us collectively and as individuals (although, granted, some to the more Marxist or anarchist Left have criticized Zuboff, fairly enough, for being too focused on a liberal defense of free individuals rather than looking at things from a more communal, mutualistic, or collective perspective). I’ve read a few different books on the history and impact of these corporations but Zuboff’s was by far the most well done of all of them. In fact, I believe that Zuboff’s book is as close as we can come to essential reading for providing us with the contextual information we need in order to understand the world we live in. Specifically, Zuboff shows how the transition from liberal democracy to techno-feudalism is being (or has been?) accomplished. A lot of people have proclaimed the end of capitalism as we know it (specifically, the end of neoliberalism) but none of the arguments I have read in this regard have been very convincing to me. Things that people said were ending neoliberalism appeared, to me, to be things that actually strengthened and deepened neoliberalism’s hold on us and its ability to have us all live according to its core values. In fact, going as far back as 2004, I’ve always surmised that the end of capitalism, pace Marx first and foremost, would not result in communism—it would result in a return to feudalism. What Zuboff shows us is precisely how that transition takes place and what that new model of 21^st-century feudalism looks like (something also explored by Yanis Varoufakis, Cédric Durand, and Malcolm Harris in books I also read this year—all good books, but none as significant, imo, as Zuboff’s book). This is a longer book but it reads quickly. Very highly recommended.

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It was 9pm on December 25^th and we were closing down from our dinner drop-in. A lot of homeless folx don’t have anywhere to go on Christmas day. And nothing really reminds you of just how homeless you really are as hunkering down in a nest of wet blankets in a doorway while the temperature drops below freezing and the shop windows behind you glow with pictures of happy families eat turkey and opening presents. So, we stayed open on Christmas Day and the staff members who had the day off even stopped in with their families for awhile. Sometimes that’s the difference between being a member of a community and being a human resource in a workplace.

So, yeah, it was 9pm on December 25^th and we were closing down, but I was on my back on the bathroom floor holding the hand of a man who had stopped breathing and collapsed in the stall.

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These encounters are full-to-the-brim with subtleties related to affect, presentation, nonverbal and paraverbal communications, and vibes that are hard to translate from brief but profoundly intimate face-to-face encounters to words that are written on a computer and read on a screen. I’m attempting to engage in this act of translation because so much of the heart-work and life-affirming and -transforming interactions we have occurs at this level. Plus, I’m a big fan of developing an ongoing communal reflection on our praxis so I’ll do my best to contribute to that here.

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WHAT DO I DO WITH MY DISTRESS?

In my own life and thoughts, I am sometimes prone to catastrophizing or doom spiraling. Something difficult, painful, or simply uncomfortably unexpected occurs in an area of my life that I care about deeply, and suddenly my mind is racing through the next twenty awful things that are going to result from this until I arrive at the worst possible outcome. I become distressed, I ruminate, I catastrophize and suddenly the absolute worst thing imaginable has gone from being considered a highly improbable outlier to being treated as an inevitability that looms over everything.

This is a very uncomfortable experience. It results in an increased feeling of agitation and distress. And yet, when I sense myself initiating the spiral—i.e., when I am aware enough to observe that I am making a choice to initiate this process of catastrophizing—I learn that part of me really wants to throw me whole-heartedly into this distressing experience. I sense that I am beginning to spiral, I move to stop myself from doing so—and then something very strong within me says, “No! We are going into this and nothing can stop us and we are going to obsessively ruminate about everything awful and catastrophize until we feel absolutely annihilated and overwhelmed by it all!”

That’s kind of weird, right? Well, not really, because so many of us do that with behaviours that we experience as undesirable or painful and which we tell ourselves we want to avoid at all costs. It’s actually pretty normal to compulsively, obsessively, and sometimes rather forcefully do things that, on average, we say we really don’t enjoy doing at all. So instead of calling this weird, let’s call that a very curious thing. This part of me that refuses to allow this other part of me to stop me from doom spiraling, this part of me that wants to doom spiral and catastrophize, isn’t that a curious thing? What’s up with that?

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Because I am so far behind on these reviews, I will not be reviewing everything in my usual (and still not really adequate to be called a review) way. Instead, some titles will be mentioned and not reviewed. Then maybe I can catch up to where I’m at in the year. In February, I read or watched: 18 books (The Evocative Object World; Mourning and Melancholia; Mourning Diary; Hope Without Optimism; Slime; Wanderlust; Life in the City of Dirty Water; There There; Alphabetical Diaries; Either/Or; Diary; Trailer Park Shakes; Be Holding; Love’s Last Number; Best Canadian Poetry 2024; O; I Am Only a Foreigner Because You Do Not Understand; and We Are On Our Own); 3 movies (The Zone of Interest; The Dark and the Wicked; and Night Swim); and 6 documentaries (Fine Lines; Lover Stalker Killer; The Other Side of the Wind; Life Overtakes Me; The Soul in Peril; and Fungi).

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AND DID YOU GET WHAT YOU NEEDED FROM THIS LIFE, EVEN SO?[1]

1. Maslow’s Doctrine

Over time, the need to translate complex needs into depoliticized programs that posture as caring while actually further entrenching the core trajectories of the status quo of racial capitalism—the need, in other words, to orient and justify care-work within the language, ideology, and commonsense perspective of a governance model that increasingly revolves around austerity, efficiency, value for money, and return on investment, wherein so-called service providers are compelled to bid on contracts designed by municipal bureaucrats who work largely on behalf of real estate developers and business associations and whose metrics of success are designed accordingly—has led to the formulation of certain core beliefs or models that now function as something like Scriptures within social services.

One such doctrine is Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. After staying with the Siksiká (Blackfoot) Nation in 1938 (more on that in a moment), Maslow developed a five-stage model of human need. At the base are physiological needs, then safety needs, love and belonging, esteem, and at the peak, the need for self-actualization.

Critically, according to Maslow’s doctrine, lower-tier needs have to be met before higher-tier needs can be adequately addressed. If a person is starving and exposed to the elements, it doesn’t make sense to focus on helping that person “become the most that one can be.” Instead, one should provide them with food, water, shelter, and clothing. A person can’t be their best self if they’re dead, right? Furthermore, and very importantly within Maslow’s doctrine, the individual who is experiencing unmet physiological needs is called to act responsibly by prioritizing basic needs over all others so as, to the best of their abilities, not be a burden on the community.

Interestingly, Maslow observes that of the Siksiká he met in 1938, approximately 80-90% were living at a stage of self-actualization that only 5-10% of Europeans attained (by “self-actualization” Maslow means, “the desire to become more and more what one is, to become everything that one is capable of becoming”). Maslow observes this about the Siksiká despite the fact that John A. MacDonald and the Canadian occupation had already cleared the plains (i.e. deliberately decimated buffalo populations and used mass starvation to drive Indigenous nations away from their own territories and ways of living onto reserves that basically operated as open-air prisons for people who were forcibly impoverished).[2] Furthermore, the Canadian state was already actively removing Siksiká children from many homes and communities (the first “Indian Residential School” for the Siksiká was opened in 1886).[3] White supremacy and racism was rampant in the nearby White communities. Maslow himself observes that the local Whites “were the worst bunch of creeps and bastards I’d ever run across in my life.” In other words, the Siksiká were already going through significant genocide-related traumas, were being targeted by well-armed colonizers intent on their destruction, were being deprived of basic needs, had their safety jeopardized, and were still living (according to Maslow) with 80-90% of their people self-actualizing in ways that 90-95% of Europeans (including Canadians of European descent) were not.

What is going on here? Well, as Cindy Blackstock and other Indigenous scholars and knowledge-keepers have emphasized, Maslow’s doctrine is a mis/appropriation of (part of) the Siksiká worldview. Blackstock provides the following illustration (which she acknowledges is a major simplification of both sides):

What Maslow places at the top of his pyramid is actually the foundation of the Siksiká teepee. This is the case, in part, because unlike the European perspective regarding the individual who must be responsible for himself [sic], the Siksiká believed that the community, as a collective, was responsible for covering everyone’s basic needs.[4] The individual who chose to enter into this life was thus, from birth (or before birth in some Indigenous ontologies), entering into a process of self-actualization. This was then carried forward from birth through the collective sense of kinship that was exhibited in practices of mutual care (community actualization), and the perpetuation of a culture that prioritized the meaningful and active interconnectedness of kin, clans, and nations (from other Indigenous nations to plant and animal nations), to a sense of home that was rooted in a sense of being of the land (rather than being owners of the land—belonging not belongings being what is at stake here). Thus, a person is born into self-actualization and then, rather than maturing into “rugged individualism” or “developing oneself as a competitive unit of human capital in a limited goods economy populated by winners and losers,” one matures into caring for oneself along with others. This is done in the present, with attention to the past (via one’s elders and ancestors) and extends into the future (for the next seven generations).

Significantly, drawing on the work of Terry Cross (Seneca), Blackstock argues for a non-hierarchical interconnectedness of human needs based upon a medicine wheel, rather than a hierarchical structure (be that a pyramid or a teepee).[5]

This is a profoundly different understanding of human need, the inter- and intra-connectedness of being, and how we go about caring well for ourselves and others than that offered by Maslow’s doctrine. Critically, depending on what is happening at any given moment, a different quadrant of the wheel may take priority. Some things are worth starving for. Some things are worth dying for. And some things are not. It all depends on how a people understand their situation, what values they hold, and what they believe is the best way forward. Maslow’s doctrine forecloses this complexity, denies these possibilities and, ultimately, enforces a very Eurocentric conception of personhood, wellbeing, care, responsibility, and individuality, while making that conception appear to be a universal truth or fact.

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PART 1

In 1955, wealthy White settlers drained the final remnants of the Thedford Bog. The bog’s rich black soil was considered some of the best agricultural land in southwestern Ontario. Three marshy lakes—Lake Smith, Lake George, and Lake Burwell, separated from Lake Huron by large sand dunes (dunes that are also on the verge of being completely gone)—were simply disappeared. They went missing. They were murdered. Lake Smith alone spanned 200-400 acres of open water with 600-800 acres of floating bog surrounding it. In 1937, The Canada Company sold most of that lake to Dr. Gordon Hagmeier. Initially used for duck and game hunting, he spitefully decided to drain the whole area when the Department of Lands and Forests fined him for hunting out of season (so it goes when land is converted into “private property” and made into a “resource” than can be hoarded by the rich). Thus, by 1955, the wetlands were gone and, much like the vast expanses of Carolinian forests that were logged across the region, the settlers exploited the richness of the soil—soil that had once been an integral part of thriving ecosystems—in order to expand Canada’s production of tobacco, winter wheat, and corn feed.

For thousands of years, the Thedford Bog served as a stopping point for millions of Tundra Swans. Tens of thousands of swans would stop at the bog on their spring migration from Chesapeake Bay in Delaware to the artic coast (an annual round-trip of 12,000kms). In the bog, the swans found safety, sustenance, rest, and, I reckon, the joy that accompanies finding such things while engaging in a long and arduous journey. A home away from home or, perhaps, one of many homes the swans inhabited during lives that were tuned to the cycles of the seasons, the span of time given to them, and the gift of flight.

Today, Tundra Swans still stop on the farmers’ fields in Thedford (70kms west-northwest of my home in London, Ontario). No longer traveling in the tens of thousands, when locals go to “see the swans” they are fortunate to see a few hundred birds picking at whatever remnants of genetically-modified farm feed were left on the scarred and frozen furrows of earth where the birds have landed.

Generations have come and gone since the bog was drained (the average lifespan of a Tundra Swan is ten years), but the swans continue to stop here. After thousands of years of nature and nurture—epigenetics and teaching younglings where to go—the swans do what they have always done even though the safety, sustenance and perhaps even the joy and feeling of being-at-home, are gone. So much has been taken and so many have come and gone since the taking, that I imagine that even the awareness of what was taken is gone. I can’t imagine that the swans remember why they used to stop here. I imagine they know that they are tired from their long flight. I imagine that they want to rest their weary wings awhile. I imagine that they stop where they have always stopped before. I imagine they imagine that this devastated land—land that barely supports the few hundred who land there now—was always this way. It’s not much, but, hey, one has to stop somewhere so it might as well be here. It’s not like there’s much of much left anywhere else.

This spring when the Tundra Swans passed through, locals like me pulled over at the side of the road and said, “wow, look at all the swans.” And we gave thanks for the beauty we witnessed in the hundreds and we were grateful to be alive and here to share in all of this annihilated everything with all of those we have annihilated.

PART 2

I was born in London, Ontario. I was abused as a child in London, Ontario. I was abandoned as a teenager in London, Ontario. I was homeless as a teenager in London, Ontario. I left London, Ontario, and swore I would never return. Over the years, when I occasionally returned to visit loved ones and my parents, I was struck by the ways in which London was such an obvious stronghold of White supremacy, heteronormativity, homo- and trans-antagonism, Evangelical Christianity, hopelessness, and creeping devastation. After every visit I reaffirmed to myself, “fuck, I’m so glad I got out of there,” and also, “I’m never going back again.”

I moved back to London, Ontario, in 2013. Since my return, I find myself being pulled back to the places I used to inhabit as a child. Places where I used to find sustenance, rest and, yes, some joy, but also places where I fled for safety, where I sought respite, and where I tried to find shelter. The swings I sat on all night when I had no place to go. The 24-hours Tim Horton’s where I would try to sleep before they kicked me out for sleeping. The high-school I attended. The mall where we skipped class to play hackey sack. The field behind the church I attended where I tried to sleep on Saturday nights. Most of these places are still there. Some are modified. The climbers in the suburban park where I slept most are gone and have been replaced with safer climbers at a slightly different location in the park. The swings are still in the same location but have been replaced with a different swing set and woodchips have been added. The three very sappy spruce trees are still next to the swings and, when I hugged them again all these years later, were still very sappy.

But no place calls me more than the house where I spent the first seventeen years of my life. I have only driven by it a handful of times since 2013, but I feel it calling me in a way that I imagine is comparable to the ways in which the former Thedford Bog still calls to the Tundra Swans. A few weeks ago, when I was doing some thinking about parenting, belonging, home, and connection, I decided to take an evening stroll through that old neighbourhood. Down the streets I walked and biked as a child. Back behind the variety store where I would go for penny candies. Into the park where I slept as a teen. Some memories came back to me—memories of a field that used to be where a massive suburb now exists, memories of hopping a friend’s back fence to go catch tadpoles, memories of who lived in every single house on the street, memories of riding bikes with neighbours down walking paths between houses. Some memories came in an instant, some took shape and I could hold onto them, others flashed by and were gone again before I could put them into words. The contours of the earth under my feet felt familiar to my body, even though I knew the ground must have changed in the last twenty-six years. Still, I recognized the way the earth dipped and rolled in the wooded area behind a church, I remembered vanishing into worlds of my imagination exactly there, between those trees, where the earth permitted hiding.

In the midst of all this remembering, the house where I grew up gave me… nothing. I walked by it, and it was like a great blankness at the centre of everywhere else where memories were proliferating. I felt nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing. What I remembered was still what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was still everything else.

I am like the Tundra Swans. I go back to the house where I grew up seeking parts of myself that were taken from me but they are not there. No vestige of them remains. And the memories of those parts have been eviscerated along with them. Like the swans, I pass by and through not knowing why, not finding what was there at one time long ago. I am not even aware of what used to be there or why I might still go there now. What was lost will not be found. What was taken will not be returned. What was devastated will not be restored. All I can do, on my migration home, is stop and rest my weary feet awhile.