Let me start by saying I am a Canadian WASP. I am white, English speaking (to which I still occasionally curse my parents), and was raised Anglican/Protestant (I converted later in life). I could explain my rich Irish/Scottish roots, but these roots date so far back it is a bit of a fallacy. My family has been in Canada, New Brunswick specifically, since the late 1700's/ early 1800's (depending on who you ask).

I am Canadian with equal measure of pride and shame. A founding member of this great country. A family that has served in the military for generations during times of peace and conflict. A family that has known love and hate, poverty and riches, violence and kindness. A family not unlike many others.

Unlike most of my family, I grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. The result of growing up in a military family. Alberta is not known for its cultural diversity or racial “tolerance” especially growing up in the 80's. But what did I know, most of my friends looked just like me.

When I was a teenager that landscape started to change. I ventured out into the city more often. The small dance studio I attended grew into a new space downtown. I met people that didn’t look like me, but I didn’t notice. We danced, laughed, and joked around together. But what did I know, they acted just like me.

I remember the first time I heard a racial slur that didn’t sit right with me. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, ugh. It was ugly and I wanted to turn away and forget it happened. I didn’t know why, yet, I just knew it wasn’t right. Mind you, this was never said directly to another person, but that didn’t matter. I knew the language of anger, hate, and violence and its impact. But what did I know, others got called names just like me.

Years passed and lessons were learned. I was dating someone that didn’t look like me. His family and home were just like mine. We had similar issues and problems. Took the same classes at school. But yet I was told he was different and not in a good way. I could be friends with him, but not date him. “It’s just not right. What happens if you have kids?” Ugh. It was that same ugliness in the pit of my stomach. There was an invisible line that I unknowingly (but brazenly) crossed. But what did I know, they lived in the neighbourhood just like me.

I defiantly crossed many lines in my life. This line, in particular, I crossed many times in many different ways over the years. And I found out what happens if you have kids. My daughter was born and it was a whole other ball game. She was (and still is) a beautiful bi-racial child. And I had more love for her than I knew existed in the world. I knew in those first few moments that I would love her forever. But what did I know, except she was a part of me and just like me.

I remember a moment in the hospital after having my daughter. The nurse brought her into the room (they did that back then) and stood at the end of our two beds looking between me and my roommate and the baby. Neither me nor my roommate said a word. We just watched this nurse and waited. You see this was Halifax and my roommate was a beautiful black woman and this babe in her arms could have belonged to either of us and this nurse knew it. After a moment of watching her contemplate her next move, I smiled and said “She’s mine.” In that response, I could not only hear the sigh of relief, but could feel it too. I caught my roommates eye and we smiled. The world is changing and people are trying to figure it out. But what did I know, except in that moment these two other women were just like me.

I tried to ignore the looks, the side conversations, and the comments. I tried to respond nicely to the questions — the probing, often provoking and privacy-invading questions. The “Is she adopted?” questions. The “Oh she’s cute, what is she?” questions. The “Where did you get her from?” questions. Seriously?! I am surprised at how poised I became at responding politely but pointedly. But what did I know, she was my daughter and is just like me.

It was in these early years that the real lessons were taught. She couldn’t speak for herself so it was my responsibility. And it was a crash course, much like trying to complete an undergrad in one summer school session. It was the realest way for me to walk in someone else’s shoes as I spoke for her in those early years. But what did I know, weren’t others learning a new language just like me.

When you are the voice for someone else, you start to hear the other conversations that are happening. You start to see the pervasive injustice that is everywhere around you. And you wonder how you could not have noticed it before. We are not equal partners in this world. There is a hierarchy of power, of position, and of perceived worth. But what did I know, others occupied their space on this societal ladder just like me.

Strangely, it seems that the higher you are on this ladder, the less likely you are to know you are on it. It wasn’t like they climbed the ladder, but were rather placed there at birth and lived their lives from that rung. Perhaps it is from fear of looking down and seeing how high you are. But what did I know, I thought people knew their place in the world just like me.

It was a lesson in privilege — white privilege, male privilege, wealthy privilege — and in racism. It was a lesson that I would be taught in boardrooms and offices, in magazine covers and news coverage, in university classrooms and online communities. It was a lesson that I would learn through my daughter’s eyes and experiences. I was not at the top by any means, but nor was I at the bottom. Sitting on my lower middle rung it was a lesson in understanding, in empathy, in looking this way and that way. I’d like to say the ladder doesn’t actually go up and down, but it does. Our society is built on inequality. And if you don’t believe that you are probably so high up on that ladder you are suffering from oxygen deprivation. But what did I know, wasn’t everyone just trying to live their life just like me.

I found a fight worth fighting and that deserved attention. A fight for women, for gender justice, for equality. A fight for freedom from violence and the threat of violence. A fight for access to wealth and opportunity. But even in this fight, we were not equal. The rules and the decisions on who is in and who is out. It reminded me of the popularity contest in high school. But what did I know, everyone was fighting for equality in their own way just like me.

It was during this fight that I heard the tale. A tale of hundreds of women who were missing or had been murdered. But no one was turning over every rock or searching in all the crevices to bring them home to safety. No one was tracking down their killers to bring them to justice. No one cared because these women occupied an even lower rung on the ladder than I. But what did I know, they were women just like me. (Find out more)

They were daughters, sisters and mothers. They were friend and foe. They had dreams and hopes. They had anger and joy, love and laughter. They had people who care for them. They have people who cry for them, who grieve the loss. They danced with their friends and hoped for a brighter tomorrow. They wanted to fall in love and feel a part of something bigger. They dreamed of first kisses and dates. They went to school and got excited by their first job. But what did I know, I thought everyone wants to be loved and respected just like me.

This is what I know. When you are able to see the world thru someone else’s eyes, you feel the impact of our society’s injustice. I believe we can change, we need to change. We can make this world better, our community better, for each other, for ourselves. Because we all want to be loved and respected and have access to opportunity. We all deserve to be remembered.

When the freedom of any group is threatened, the freedom of us all is threatened.