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As it enters its final three days, the horse death toll at the Calgary Stampede has reached six – a number that Stampede spokesperson Doug Fraser describes as “very unusual and very upsetting.” [source] However, death is nothing new to the annual event. In fact, since 1986, more than 50 chuckwagon horses alone have died as a result of various levels of participation at the Calgary Stampede. [source] This number does not include other animals involved, such as grown cattle and baby calves used in rope-tying events.

There’s no definitive reason for the deaths of the six horses at this year’s event. Cause has ranged from broken legs, cardiac arrest due to stress and even a horse that was bucking so wildly it broke its own back and was subsequently put down. [source] Not unlike horse racing, these beasts are forced to perform, holding up their 1,000-pound bodies on ankles not much thicker than yours or mine. Ouch.

All of this leads me to ask only one question: What is the magic number?

Which number of dead animals serves as the pivot point for the Calgary Stampede to move from “family entertainment” to “unnecessary cruelty”? Though the event is considered an Alberta tradition – mini donuts included – the notion of tradition does not automatically translate to ethical or humane.

Many fans of the Calgary Stampede will argue that it’s the nature of the beast, so to speak, and that these horses are simply performing in ways that their bodies were designed to perform. While it’s true that horses run, buck and jump in a natural environment, the Calgary Stampede creates an entirely different circumstance.

It’s interesting that this annual event – and ensuing annual debate – is surfacing simultaneously with a similar deliberation in Vancouver. Vancouver Parks Board Commissioner Stuart Mackinnon is putting forth a motion to hold a public referendum and consider whether or not whales should be held in captivity. Using animals for entertainment or “sport” – as in the stampede, horse racing, zoos and aquariums – is a hotly contested debate, one in which opinions are always strongly divided.

Where do you stand on the issue?

When Vancouver and Whistler were first awarded the 2010 Olympic Winter Games seven years ago, I was less than enthused. I’ve never been a fan of the Olympics generally and wasn’t pumped for them to be held in British Columbia specifically. My sentiments spent the next near-decade snowballing, tangling up in an avalanche of over-spending, criticizing reports, suffering social programs and homelessness to name a few. While you can talk to me until you’re blue in the face, I will never, ever agree that athletic facilities trump any of the problems within our Province that are rapidly deteriorating. That said, I also can’t deny the fact that the Games are very much here.

This is where I admit to waving the white flag, eat my words and declare my own hypocrisy. Despite it all, I am very, very excited for the celebrations at hand.

I suppose it began last Thursday. I made my way to 49th Avenue in an attempt to catch Steve Nash carry the torch and felt entirely unpatriotic. In a sea of red and white, I stood out like a sore thumb in my purple basketball jersey. I intended to get Nash’s attention and, seemingly, it worked. Without red and white, I felt entirely alienated so made the decision that I’d actually sport Canada’s colours the next day as the torch made its way past my office downtown.

The excitement on Georgia Street Friday morning was incredible with a sea of proud Canadians stretched, quite literally, as far as my eyes could see. And as we cheered, applauded and shouted, everyone was speculating who’d ultimately light the cauldron that night at BC Place Stadium. I had to admit that even I, the Olympic Cynic, was curious. [Cue that white flag I was telling you about.]

Curled up on my couch that evening, I sat mesmerized as so many of the beautiful elements of our country’s culture unfolded before millions of eyes around the globe. British Columbia is only a fraction of the rich tapestry that is Canada, made up of people, images, songs, history and events that have shaped and transformed the home in which you and I live today. Perhaps the hydraulic issue served as an unintended measure of proof that, despite how breathtaking Canada is, it is not perfect. We’d be fools to deny such flaws exist but can instead unite in the pride that threads through us all and hope that one day we’ll see a country in which the final pieces click into place.

I’ve been called many names in the past: Homebody, Little Miss Anti-Social and even Not A Joiner. While those labels can certainly ring true at the best of times, now is not one of them. The movement and spirit of Canadian pride has spread across this city like wildfire. Think of Vancouver as being likened to Zombieland – minus the fleshy tenancies but instead with a healthy dose of infectious patriotism.

The ’round-the-clock music, cheers, screams and partying no longer cause me to roll my eyes but instead stifle giggles. If anything, this event has served as a personal reminder of how truly magical British Columbia is. It’s easy to take the mountains and ocean and blue sky and fresh air for granted each day when it’s on my doorstep. To be given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see those elements of our nation through the eyes of countless international visitors is a gift. While I certainly refuse to turn a blind eye to the critical needs on the streets of my city and in the towns of my province, it would also be a shame were I to miss out on such an amazing opportunity in my own front yard.

The strangest thing about this all is the notion that in a few short weeks, the streets will have emptied out, Robson Square will be once again quiet on my early morning walks to work and we will all be left wondering if it was just a dream…

I was still in diapers when my family moved from Port Hardy to the Comox Valley in 1982. The Valley has always been and will always be home and, as such, has also always been an immense source of pride. Today I feel shame.

It’s a community comprised primarily of three towns – Courtenay, Comox and Cumberland – and is a community born out of a vibrant history. Though, like any community with deep roots, the stories are often marred. When Cumberland was a booming mining town in the late 1800s, it was also home to North America’s second largest Chinatown as well as a substantial Japanese population. These immigrant workers were brought in simply to risk their lives doing the most hazardous of mining jobs that others would not do. Countless immigrants died in doing so.

Much of Cumberland’s Chinatown was destroyed in a fire in 1936 that originated in a chop suey house; the area was never rebuilt. And further, in 1942 amongst the shadows of World War II, the entire local Japanese population was ordered to be shipped to internment camps in the interior of British Columbia.

Neither population recovered from these decimating events. One could say that these were the first examples of blatant racism in the Valley’s history.

As I grew up, the Comox Valley’s population was predominantly comprised of Caucasian people of European descent. Being that the Island is still home to many First Nations reserves, there has also always been a sizable native population. In junior high I had one girlfriend who had immigrated with her family from South Korea, and went to high school with a brother and sister from Pakistan. The number of black families in the community could be counted on one hand.

While the diversity of the Comox Valley has certainly increased over the last decade, what has always been apparent to me, however, is that none of this ever seemed to matter. We all had our respective backgrounds, history and ancestry, but that was just a matter of fact – not a matter for tact. The idea of any form of racism in the Comox Valley seemed entirely outlandish to me.

There are still numerous men who drive their trucks around the Valley with Confederate flags emblazoned in the front license plate holders, but I always assumed they were paying tribute to The Dukes of Hazzard rather than knowing what it symbolizes. It would seem that I am incorrect. A recent event in the parking lot across from the Courtenay McDonald’s restaurant has changed what I thought I knew in an instant.

Last Friday a 38-year-old landscape artist by the name of Jay Phillips was accosted, cornered and both verbally and physically attacked by three young men between the ages of 19 and 25. In broad daylight, Phillips was bombarded with fists, kicks, racial slurs and threats of lynching. What his cowardly attackers did not expect, however, was that the man well-versed in mixed martial arts was prepared to fight back – and he did.

“If nobody says anything or does anything, they’re going to do this again,” Phillips stated in a local news interview. The attack, which was caught entirely on video and subsequently posted on YouTube, was the silver lining. “Otherwise it would have been three or five guys’ word against mine,” he said. “I don’t want this shit to ever happen ever again.”

The three men have been identified, arrested and charged with assault. The RCMP are currently investigating and further charges of a hate crime are pending.

I applaud Jay Phillips for standing up, for using his voice and for fighting back against such a disgusting display of ignorance and hate. The kind of behavior perpetrated against Mr. Phillips simply cannot – and will not – be tolerated. It is my hope that by his brave example, more people will be strong enough to resist backing down and instead fight for love and acceptance.

During my training to teach pre-school, we were told a story of a group of 15 pre-schoolers that were engaged in a sharing circle together. Each child was instructed to say something about the other children that makes each of them different or unique. One child was permanently bound to a wheelchair, and when it came to his turn, his classmates took turns praising his artistic skills, his fun laugh, his willingness to share and exclaiming that he always had the best snacks. Not one single child noted that his wheelchair made him different or unique.

Perhaps we can all take take our cues from the uncorrupted.

Earlier I was speaking with a friend in an attempt to find a topic to blog about. After politely declining the subject of the Middle Eastern conflict (you can read about that elsewhere), he suggested “the fleeting nature of women’s fashion and how it breeds unnecessary consumerism.” Seemed to me that was a bit of a sore spot so I probed further…

As it turns out, his wife was petitioning to him for a new pair of boots, justifying said boots because they were on sale from $350 down to $250. It seemed reasonable to me. His argument, however, was that she already has a number of perfectly good boots. And further, she wanted these new boots simply based on the fact that “the toes are more blunt on these ones.” And with that, I sided with him instantly.

Photo: HBO on Fashion Nation

I can readily admit that it took me a long, long time to finally understand the concept of shoes beyond basic function. I could appreciate how essential it is to own a pair of sneakers, a pair of heels, maybe some galoshes for the winter and, most definitely, snowboard boots for obvious purposes. But it wasn’t until I finally hit my mid-20s and decided to buck fashion trends for what I wanted to wear that I was able to recognize just how crucially footwear is correlated to fashion.

They say that shoes make an outfit, and it’s true. Imagine a dreamy, creamy summer dress paired with black, square-heeled pumps instead of ballet flats or espadrilles. Or a sleek and tailored pantsuit with a pair of Doc Martens. Ridiculous, I know. But does this mean that it’s necessary to hit the shoe shops for countless pairs to match with each and every outfit? I think not.

Why did I disagree with my friend’s wife’s attempt at rationalization as mentioned above? To purchase a pair of boots simply for a different toe style is completely unnecessary. Flip open any Vogue magazine. While the pages are plastered with couture, cruise wear and the unconventional, a running theme is fashion that exudes class, style and tradition. I’m of the opinion that it’s okay to spend several hundred on a pair of boots – bearing in mind that they should be both functional and timeless in their design.

While my sturdy pair of Frye boots may run upwards of $350, will I still be wearing these a decade from now? The chances are quite likely. The same can’t be said of footwear (or any fashion, for that matter) that is trendy or fad-ariffic. Style du jour will fade with each season and disappear like a tumbleweed. And other items, such as the perfect pair of jeans, a stunning little black dress or delicate heels are comparable to a Chanel suit – iconic fashion statements that transcend the passing of time. Those pieces are what are worth the extra dollars.

Something For The Men

On a final note, what is it with men and boots? My friend also confirmed to me that almost every man finds a woman in boots irresistible. Perhaps I’m just a little naïve (or maybe my brain doesn’t function as imaginatively), but what goes through a man’s head when he sees a woman in boots? And further, do you men prefer a woman in boots or a woman in a sexy pair of shoes?

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.

I’m a quality girl, I enjoy quality products. I have long been a firm believer in the idea that you get what you pay for. I won’t shell out a lot of cash for things like flip flops, socks and even sometimes panties (those H&M booty shorts are 3 for $10 and super cute). Then there are those items which deserve more than a few pennies tossed their way. For this girl, jeans, hair care and skin care rank in the top three.

I’ve been a consistent user of Bumble & bumble. for a few years now, and never bat an eyelash at the price tag. Sure it’s pricier than your average drugstore brands of hair care, but the results are worth it. It’s as simple as that. Duh.

A few months ago I received a suspicious text message from Becky during one of her south-of-the-border shopping trips. She was shopping at everyone’s favourite “fun find” store, Target, and spotted my beloved Bb. on the shelves. “Hmmm…” I thought to myself. Something wasn’t right, if only because I knew how exclusively Bb. sold their products.

Then again this morning, Jenny mentioned that she saw a few of Bb.’s products in the London Drugs on Davie Street. Naturally, I marched straight there to see the proof in the pudding. And there it was…a few bottles from their Seaweed, Alojoba and Creme de Coco collections.

I thought that Bb. products are only sold in salons, but I saw them in a drugstore, what gives?
We only sell our products through the Bb. Network which is comprised of exclusive salons and apothecaries throughout the world. We have no relationship with any mass market chains and none is authorized to sell Bb. products (and we hate it when they do). The only way to guarantee the efficacy of our products (so you know they’re the real deal) is to buy them from a member of our Network ( see Salon Locator ) or directly from Bumble and bumble. [source]

It was never my intent to dive into a diatribe on retailers who illegally sell products in their stores, but my point is that it’s completely important to have a bit of awareness as a consumer. This morning, as I unscrewed the caps from the “Bb.” I found at London Drugs, my nose was instantly invaded with a sharp stinging sensation – clue no. 1 that it wasn’t a genuine Bb. product. Major retailers, such as London Drugs and Target, are known to carry products obtained through a third party distributor, and the products themselves are often diluted or altered in an attempt to save money. In fact, when Jenny went to New York to attend the actual Bb. academy, she spotted Bb. products in corner stores around Manhattan.

How can you be more aware and support ethical consumerism? Here’s some easy steps:

1. Smell the Product. As I mentioned, the stuff spotted this morning smelled markedly different than genuine Bb. products.

2. Check Your Surroundings. I picked up my favourite perfume a few months back, knowing not many would have it since not even the Bay nor Sears carried it. Imagine my surprise when I spotted a stack of Marc Jacobs gift sets in Courtenay at the Shopper’s Drug Mart. Not only were there just a few available, the fragrance wasn’t available in an individual bottle. If a store genuinely carries a name, such as Marc Jacobs (which SDM doesn’t), a variety of that product will be available.

3. Look At the Label. The first thing I noticed about this morning’s “Bb.” discovery was the bottle of Seaweed. The design had been manipulated and looked nothing like those found in salons.

4. Check the Website. Most major brands are aware of their products being sold on the black market to third parties who then pass them on to chain stores. Usually you can find a disclaimer on any given website verifying this, and also informing you where you can legitimately purchase a product.

5. If It Seems To Good to Be True… it probably is. That DC hoodie you purchased for $20 at Army & Navy probably shouldn’t have been on the rack in the first place.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been burning through all six seasons of HBO’s ‘Oz.’ In a nutshell, the program follows a large group of inmates in a fictional maximum security correctional facility in an unnamed U.S. state. Within the Oswald State Correctional Facility – or “Oz” as it’s known on the street – exists a place called “Emerald City” (aka “Em City”).

Em City is an experimental unit within the prison where inmates are allowed to wear their own clothes, interact with each other and work at jobs within the prison on the conditions that they attend classes and rehabilitation counselling, to name a few particulars. What’s most interesting about the cell block is that Aryans, Spanish, Irish, Muslims and a number of other ethnic groups attempt to co-exist together. Beyond that, I’ll not say anything because there are several people I know who have recently been turned on to the show and I would hate to ruin anything for any of them.

Photo: Ughman on Flickr

Yes, I do realize that this show is a work of fiction. At the end of each day, I’m sure the characters each washed off their “tattoos” before going home to their wives and children to prepare for another day’s work. However, it is the raw reality of humanity that this program touched on through actors (who are incredibly symbolic of you, me and the people before and behind you) that moved me in my core. And while none of it is true, the show is based on truth – human truth. The dialogue and the events quite literally force one to re-examine what we hold tight to through watching others experience similar circumstances.

“There are some confessions you can’t even make to yourself. Yearnings, desires, that you admitted to having you’d had to stop being who you are. And the facade you build so carefully will crumble, exposing to those around you, what really makes you tick.”

Last night I watched the very final episodes, and what I came to realize in those last few hours was, simply put, devastating. In one of the final episodes, tensions arose over the fate of a prisoner who was being held on death row and whether or not it was “ethical” to execute him as had been ordered by the State.

As the clock ticked down and straps were fastened, I found myself suddenly in a pool of my own tears as I sat there on my living room floor. I cried. I cried harder than I have in months, my body heaving in sobs.

Photo: Prof. Jas. Mundie on Flickr

That humanity I spoke of – the raw reality of it – it’s something that is too quickly defined without any true consideration. As I sat watching that particular scene, what struck me opened up a floodgate that brought out the heavy grief. Different values are placed on different lives, and each time, the basis for that evaluation is unique.

Let’s say one man takes another man’s life and so it’s considered by some as justifiable to strap him to a chair and thrust electric currents through his body or pump his arm full of venomous toxins. It’s a sense of redemption to the family of the man who was killed. But what about the executed man’s family? Are they not left with the same void?

And while I know the death penalty isn’t a method of punishment used in Canada, it’s wide-spread in many areas of the United States and many, many countries around the world. However, my point here is not about whether or not it’s okay to sentence someone to die. My point is that what matters most is to look behind the moral wrongdoing and look at the person. This very idea is what watching ‘Oz’ has prompted me to do.

Photo: Hotel Lyric [35] on Flickr

While it’s true that prisons are packed full of murderers, arsonists, rapists and the like, at the heart of the matter, they are all still people whether men or women. Behind the moral wrongdoings are sons and daughters, people with heart and true emotions. Somewhere along the way, their moral compasses became scrambled – even if only for a moment – and has changed their lives completely.

“So, what have we learned? What’s the lesson for today? For all the never-ending days and restless nights in Oz? That morality is transient? That virtue cannot exist without violence? That to be honest is to be flawed? That the giving and taking of love both debases and elevates us? That God or Allah or Yahweh has answers to questions we dare not even ask? The story is simple: a man lives in prison and dies. How he dies? That’s easy. The who and the why is the complex part. The human part. The only part worth knowing…”

It is so easy and quick to judge and label these “criminals and scumbags,” but are those of us on the outside really that much better than these people? Who of us has not lied to our loved ones, stolen, cheated, raged or delighted in our own dances with malice?

If there were laws against such trespasses of the heart, we would all be guilty.

“Hair that twirls on finger tips so gently, baby; Hands that rest on jutting hips repenting.”
- Madonna

(Gratuitous hot shot)

Photo: duanestorey on Flickr

Not too long ago, I wrote about all the things I love about being a girl and all the things that I believe make me, in particular, “girlie.” To re-cap them would be redundant, but it’s a subject I’d like to expand on while branching out into a tangent of all things womanly. There is a small part of me that some would conclude to be “sexist.”

Quelle horreur!

Hear me out with this one…what some might view as “sexist” or “chauvenistic,” I view as fulfulling my role(s) – and right(s) – as a woman. While I am in complete agreement with the idea that women should have equal rights as men in terms of careers, education, voting rights and the like, I think that it’s important to recognize the ways in which men and woman are different. And further, I believe there’s great value in respecting those differences.

It has long been a lament of countless women around the world that men are always completely “thoughtless” in constantly leaving toilet seats up. While, like any woman, I find sitting in the bowl when it’s 2:00 a.m. and I’m in a sleepy stupor to be rather disgusting, I also think it’s completely unfair for us to expect men to put the seat down for us after they pee. After all, do they expect us to lift the seat up for them when we’re done our business? Certainly not. Double standard.

Photo: harholruf113 on Flickr

What about areas of the home other than the bathroom? Just as I wouldn’t want a man to frost my cupcakes or separate my darks from lights, I can’t imagine he’d want me to change the oil filter in his car or clean the gutters on the house. I’m not saying a man can’t play “Betty Crocker,” nor am I saying that chicas can’t bust out their inner “Mike Holmes,” but why would we want to all the time? Though men and women are fully more than capable – and have the right – to take on a variety of roles in life, all sexes aside, men and women are men and women for very good reasons.

Think about it…40 years ago, it was easier to keep the peace between dudes and chicks. Women kept the house clean, made sure a hot dinner was on the table every night, ensured that the kids were taken to school and that they did their homework, all the while looking fabulous in heels and pearl necklaces (pun perhaps intended). At the time time, men had the responsiblity of going to work, earning the family’s keep, making ultimate household decisions and was the all-around protector and provider for his family.

The men made the bacon and the women fried it up. It was a team effort. I feel it’s no longer that way.

Photo: sublime cowgirl – tanja stark on Flickr

I could go out on a politically correct limb here and say that “I don’t care who makes the bacon and who fries it, as long as someone’s doing each job,” but that would be a lie. I do care. Perhaps it’s naive of me, but I have never fully understood why so many handfuls of women are dead-set on defying the traditional roles of women – roles that are still very prevalent in cultures and communities around the world. What’s so wrong with taking care of the household or doing the laundry? Are tasks such as these simply menial? If that’s true, then is earning the family’s primary income something that puts the man in absolute power above the woman? I think the answer to both of these questions is “no.”

The bottom line, and what it all comes down to, is respect. Respect for the roles, responsibilities and obligations of men and women, respectively. No task is more important than another, nor is it any less. I’d like to think that, were these roles held in the esteem they deserve, we’d all be living in a North American society that is both more functional and fluid.

Let the backlash begin…

Being one who was born and raised on Vancouver Island, travelling on BC Ferries’ vessels was a significant and frequent part of my childhood. As a young girl, a voyage at sea was always something I looked forward to, with my family’s trip to Expo ’86 being the earliest I can remember. My mom has photos of me from that day in my mini bell bottoms, standing near the railing under the yellow-tinted glass on the upper deck.

As I’ve gotten older and gained an understanding of corporate business and the money that’s to be made in the privatization of corporations, I’ve also gained a certain bitterness towards BC Ferries. From 1960 to 2003, it was operated as a Crown corporation within the Province, falling under the jurisdiction of the British Columbia Toll Highways and Bridges Authority. Upon rumours of a growing debt, it was announced that the corporation would, in fact, become privatized.

Since that time, service on the fleet has dropped at a rate that’s almost as alarming as the equal drop in customer service. Passengers are paying more, but for what?

I won’t even get into the NDP’s decision to commission a fleet of “fast ferries,” as I’m sure that’s something every British Columbian would rather soon forget.

The final nail in the coffin was hammered down on July 2, 2003 when British Columbia, and the Vancouver/Whistler area in particular, was awarded the 2010 Olympic Winter Games.

Since that fateful day, this Province as a generalized whole has been sliding down a slippery slope riddled with bullshit propoganda and corporate sell-outs by the handful. BC Ferries are no exception.

As Rebecca and I embarked from Departure Bay in Nanaimo this past Sunday afternoon, we noticed one of the new C-Class ferries docked next to our boat. It came as no surprise that the side of the ship was emblazoned with the 2010 logo in addition to a large illustration of Olympic speed skaters.

As I returned home that evening, I flipped on the news only to see a group of proud Comox Valley residents attempting to rally up the local residents and spread excitement over the pending games. There is so much about this that breaks my heart and angers me at the same time. Little do these communities know the enormous sacrifices being made to bring a two-week sporting event to our Province.

Simply put:

Until I am no longer, quite literally, stepping over sleeping people as I walk to work in the morning, this Province has no business building a bobsled course in the North Shore mountains.

To many in this Province, the games are something exciting and new to look forward to. Unfortunately, few of them realize the reality of the situation each and every day in the very city in which the games are to be held. This Province is failing its residents. Prime examples are everywhere if one is willing to open their eyes.

The closer that February 12, 2010 approaches, the more this Province will be clearly defined by an amateur sporting event.

To simply say that this is a “sad turn of events” is a gross understatement.

In 1787, the first explorers came ashore at what is now known as Tofino. The site was named as such in 1792 by Spanish Captains Galiano and Valdez, but European settlers didn’t make their way to the area until somewhere in the middle of the 19th Century [source]. Fast forward 100 years to the decade that brought you A Clockwork Orange, disco music and the echo of the sexual revolution. Tofino was mostly populated by long-time locals and descendents of many of the community’s earliest families. The shores were dotted with lovingly-built beach shacks. It was a sustainable and affordable community. Care to take a slice of the pie in today’s market?

Photo: Chesterman Beach Realty

“This beautifully maintained 2 bedroom beachside rancher is situated on a forested, private .4 acre property across the road from spectacular Chesterman Beach in Tofino. Features include wood flooring throughout, Regency wood burning stove, large private 480 sq. ft. cedar deck, detached double garage and easy beach access. [With a square footage of 1,092] this home is ideal for a small family or as a vacation cottage. Furnishings and art are included in purchase price.”

It can be all yours for only $721,000.

Keep in mind that this is only what’s considered to be a small family home. Beaches that were once home to generations of true locals are now peppered with palatial mansions of the wealthy and affluent. Being that the Island has become a much sought-after and desirable place to live, it’s no surprise that Tofino is one of the top spots for those with cash. What’s most unfortunate about this is that the new developments have kicked long-time residents to the curb – literally. Sky-high prices have in turn caused property values and taxes to also skyrocket, making “home” no longer an affordable place to live for so many.

Tofino is only one drop in the bucket of Vancouver Island’s communities. Due to the Island’s diverse economy, different areas of the island are driven by numerous resources. Forestry is no doubt British Columbia’s largest industry, as is the case with Vancouver Island. It’s a vital source for so many of the Island’s residents, followed closely by tourism and fishing. In addition, recent years have seen vast expansions in the areas of wine-production, information technology and a growth in post-secondary educational institutions. All of these combined with the Island’s natural beauty has transformed it into a mecca for the masses. In fact, the Island’s overall population swelled by 34% between 1981 and 2001 [source].

Photo: palestrina55 on Flickr

Given the growth trends over the last two and a half decades, it seems like recession is a thing of the past for all points between Port Hardy and Oak Bay. Stephen Rowe, economics major at the University of Victoria, points to some possible reasons: “If you look at B.C.’s economy in general and then what exactly attracts people to the Island, I can’t really see it going anywhere but up,” adding that the attractions are endless. “The lifestyle, climate, town size and retirement.”

I am personally no stranger to how the face of the Island has changed. I had been raised in the Comox Valley from the time I was two-years-old. When I was little, the house I grew up in had one house behind it, and behind that, more forest than my child’s mind could imagine. Today that forest is just another sea of boxed houses wound around countless cul-de-sacs. Being that British Columbia’s population has come close to doubling over the past 25 years [source], it should come as no surprise that the population of the Valley has since risen to more than 62,000 residents in the same time period [source].

Gone is the day when Saturday’s big shopping trip comprised of a stop at Zellers before returning home again. Now “The Big Z” has been overshadowed by no less than Wal-Mart, The Home Depot, London Drugs, Winners and Future Shop to name a few. What was once the small town I grew up in has since become the first few glimmers of a fledgling city. There are so many new neighbourhoods that have sprung up over the last decade that I can no longer confidently navigate my way through all parts of the Valley. To do so would undoubtedly disorient me.

Photo: bchow on Flickr

The old saying dictates that there are two sides to every coin, so when examining the gentrification of Vancouver Island, one will be forced to choose a side in the battle of growth versus recession. While it’s true that property taxes are being forced upwards, big box stores are growing like weeds and small towns are being transformed into cities, a growing population and a booming wealth of resources are driving forces at the forefront. This economic growth is creating the need for more jobs and thus more housing. And while in a perfect world, it would be ideal to drive outsiders out and back into the mainland metropolis to preserve the resources we have, most locales across the Island desperately rely on the financial influx of tourism dollars to sustain themselves.

Surely government-imposed regulations would allow for tighter controls on the thickening population and depletion of the Island’s assets that are most certainly not going to last forever. So what’s the answer then? Do we really want to see a cap on growth, and if so, is that even a possibility?

Hundreds of years ago when the earliest explorers first discovered Vancouver Island, I doubt they could have imagined Vancouver Island as it stands in 2008. Then again, as a little girl, neither could I.