In The Tent

For Tiffany

"White Bird" - Sarah Ball

Tiffany Drew.

Hers was the name I was given to pin onto my jacket with the purple and yellow ribbon. Every woman, missing and murdered from the downtown Eastside was named on a ribbon-ed name tag. Every woman, faceless and nameless and voiceless, had her name written and spoken and heard.

Tiffany was last seen in December 1999. She would be 27 years old.

The Women's Memorial March yesterday was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had. Close to one thousand people were led through the streets of the downtown Eastside by a group of First Nations elders, drumming and singing the Woman's Warrior Song. I felt so many things. Anger, profound sorrow, a grave sense of injustice. And at the same time, a deep feeling of gratitude to be part of something bigger than each of us. Not for what I was contributing and bringing to it, but what it brought to me.

And then deep disappointment when the story was given all of sixty seconds...maybe.....on the evening news. Disappointing, but not surprising. And ironic that the commentary for the story described the march as a way for the community to "never forget" the tragedy of these women.  Too bad we couldn't start by giving the story more than "filler" status and not burying it well past the lead stories on the local news. When will we get it. But that rant is for another time.

Tonight, this is for you Tiffany Louise Drew.

We speak your name.

How to Love

"Hearts" - Aurelia Fronty

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first",
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.

- God

Remembering

"Coeur Sentimental"

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and I will be spending a part of it at the Women's Memorial March, honoring the sixty-nine plus women missing and murdered from the downtown East side of Vancouver.

Many were First Nation women. All were sex trade workers. They were easy targets because they could be missing for days, weeks, even months before anyone would notice. They were faces, bodies without names. Without stories. Without relationships to anyone outside of their own communities. They made no contribution to society that was valued and recognized.

At least this is what we tell ourselves.

But the truth is that each one was someone's daughter, mother, sister, friend. They were born like you and I; innocent, beautiful, loved if even for a brief time. They played with dolls, giggled and laughed with their friends, put bows in their hair, chased butterflies and dreamed dreams. Somewhere along the line, somehow, things went horribly wrong. But the line between her and I is so very fine.

And I am ashamed to face the truth that if there were sixty-nine women abducted and murdered from any other neighborhood, any other suburb in this city, it would not be tolerated. They would be missed.  Justice would be demanded, and it would be delivered.

Look around. The nameless, faceless, voiceless are in your city too. They are nameless, voiceless because we have made them so. But that can change. Begin today. Look for the faceless, listen for the nameless, the voiceless. Give hon our to each  story. Not because it is the nice thing to do, not because it is the charitable thing to do. But because it is right. It is just. And because her story is in your story, and yours is in hers.

I feel a mixture of humility and privilege and sadness tonight as I think about tomorrow's march. But I will be there. To see, to hear, and to honor.