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When the Persian Gulf War erupted in the summer of 1990, I was nine-years-old and verging on my 10th birthday. Over those warm months out of school, I spent most of my days wandering my Oma and Opa’s farm barefoot under the sun instead of with friends. I’d spend hours in the garden and bird aviary with my Opa when I wasn’t indoors with my Oma. She suffered from Multiple Sclerosis and therefore was generally confined to sitting on the sundeck or watching TV.

Though I was far too young to appreciate soap operas (and I still don’t), my Oma loved them and I was more than happy to keep her company on those afternoons. On August 2, 1990, Iraqi troops invaded Kuwait and before long, my Oma’s beloved soap operas were endlessly pre-empted for Persian Gulf War news coverage. Every image that my nine-year-old eyes laid sight on was of sand and tanks and military figures and Saddam, Saddam, Saddam. I was frustrated and childishly upset that we couldn’t watch our shows together all due to a “stupid war.”

The Persian Gulf War ended some months later, and some years after that I entered junior high en route to high school. There I took classes in social studies, history and comparative civilizations. Were I to enroll in these courses today, I would no doubt find them interesting while also understanding the relevance behind the events. In seventh grade, however, all my classmates and I could do was roll our eyes and question why we had to learn about something that seemed to hold no significance to a group of young teenagers.

Flash forward to November, 2008: I am now only weeks away from my 28th birthday and my world view is also that much older. The bombs dropped on Hiroshima, Japan decades before I was born. The Vietnam War broke out when my mom was just a teenager. I was only eight when the Berlin Wall crumbled and just 20 the day the towers collapsed in Manhattan. I am 27 and last night witnessed a country stand up for change and overwhelmingly elect Barack Obama as their next President.

The significant events in history are equally important to the events that happen in this world every single day. They are directly impactful on the life I live today. I live in a country where I can walk down the sidewalk and wear the clothes that I choose, believe in the faith that I choose, vote for the policiticians that I choose and make the choices that I want. That kind of freedom does not come without considerable cost.

Yesterday morning, as I went for my daily Americano as I normally do, there was a man on the corner of Hornby and Robson streets dressed in military fatigue, handing out poppies for Remembrance Day. He was quite old and I would venture to guess that he fought with Canada during World War II. He smiled warmly at me as I placed money in his collection box before allowing him to pin a poppy to my lapel. I looked down at his frail hands as they proudly placed the deep red flower over my heart. As his eyes then met my own, I considered all the things he has probably seen in his lifetime. It was all that I could do to blink back the tears that so desperately wanted to fall in gratitude.

History is not the stuff that text books are made of, nor is it comprised of a number of events that happened long before our time as individuals. History is happening on each corner of this planet, every single day. Last night, hot tears streamed down my face as the future President of the United States stressed the importance of United States, no matter a person’s income, sexual orientation, skin colour or belief. He spoke of hope and of peace while offering realistic optimism. As President-Elect Barack Obama so eloquently stated, “this victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change.” [Source]

Like countless others across my country, across the United States and all over the globe, I woke this morning with a renewed sense of hope. I am a part of what will soon be known as history that has helped shape this world - my world - and the world that my children will some day live within. I can’t help but feel as though we as united people are about to experience the current of our river flow in a new direction as we all venture forward with both vigilance and great anticipation.

Last week I found myself at a walk-in clinic. While I was partly too lazy to trek across the Cambie Street Bridge to my actual doctor’s office, I find the medical staff at the Stein Medical Clinic [website] to be thoroughly professional and less of a headache to deal with.

I had a minor health glitch, one that had me diagnosed and out the door, prescription clutched in hand, in under 10 minutes. At one point during my time at the clinic, I do remember flashing my BC Care Card, but my debit and credit cards stayed firmly tucked in my wallet. From there, I walked to Urban Fare’s pharmacy, handed over my prescription and paid for it only five minutes later with, quite literally, pocket change.

To most Canadians, this is completely normal; to most Americans, this is a luxury.

To many of them, it’s a choice between visiting the doctor or paying this month’s rent. Canada, it seems, isn’t that far behind.

Photo: Brittany G on Flickr

Garnering both flack and praise, Michael Moore’s 2007 documentary “Sicko” turned the spotlight on the some 50 million Americans who are uninsured or are covered with such measly insurance that they’re victims of the system all the same. The problem at large in the United States is that health care is completely privatized, and in his film, Moore targeted his suspicions of the conglomerate insurance companies that were denying treatment to policy holders in order to pinch pennies…billions and billions of pennies.

Here in Canada, various levels of our Government foot the bills for approximately 70% of healthcare costs and the system is “designed to ensure that all residents have reasonable access to medically necessary hospital and physician services.” [source] A huge number of our citizens also receive further and more comprehensive coverage through their respective employers.

In a time where the almighty dollar is king (and making more of it is the name of the game), I have to stop and wonder how much longer we have until Canada goes the way of our southern sister. If and when that day comes, I’m packing my bags and moving to France. Who’s with me?

(Click here to view the trailer for “Sicko.”)

For those of us in Canada, November 11 is Remembrance Day. In the U.S., the act of remembering those that died for their country is known as Veterans’ Day. Perhaps the most visual symbol of Remembrance Day in Canada is through adorning jackets and sweaters with a poppy. According to the Royal Canadian Legion website…

“Each November, Poppies blossom on the lapels and collars of over half of Canada’s entire population. Since 1921, the Poppy has stood as a symbol of Remembrance, our visual pledge to never forget all those Canadians who have fallen in war and military operations. The Poppy also stands internationally as a “symbol of collective reminiscence”, as other countries have also adopted its image to honour those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Today, when people from all parts of Canada and from all walks of life join together in their pledge to never forget, they choose to display this collective reminiscence by wearing a Poppy. They stand united as Canadians sharing a common history of sacrifice and commitment.”

I am most certainly a woman who is not only proud to call herself Canadian, but also one who is forever indebted to the men and women who gave up their lives for the sake of our nation. I have to admit, however, that I struggle with the idea of wearing the poppy. My issue is not with showing others the respect I have for those that sacrificed for our freedom; my issue is with how a poppy on my lapel could be interpreted by others.