Archives for February, 2010

My parents moved into a new house 2 weeks ago. They’re still meeting their neighbours, one of whom came over today to meet us. I hear my mother coming down the hallway, introducing her to my siblings as she encounters them, and then saying something about how I’m home on break from school in BC. She calls me out of the kitchen where I am having elevenses at 3PM.

- Assalamu alaikum, Aunty.
- Wa alikummus salam. It’s nice to meet you.
- It’s nice to meet you, too.
- How old are you?
- Uh … 24.
- My daugher is 23. She lives at [X] and [X]. She got married two years ago. She comes home nearly everyday.

My mother’s face stiffens.

February, and the sun is out, so all the blinds are up, and the windows and the front door open. The kitchen is chaos. I wash dishes under its angled roof, hemmed by bright yellow walls, hot water breathing up steam and clouding up the tiny window. I have a cold, and I’ve taken out my nosering to making sneezing less of a production. There’s a wad of tissue in each of the pockets of my jeans, the thin denim grimy from the previous night spent under a tarp in the rain in the tent village. Tomorrow is for laundry, for fresh underwear and crushed sweaters. There’s a pot of lentils and potatoes simmering on the splattered stove. It smells incredible; I have come to believe in the transformative power of coconut milk. There’s a carton of overpriced orange juice in the fridge, and there’s ginger to brew into sweet tea. There are cheap strawberry wafers on the counter and figs in the cupboard, and I’m feeling just a little lightheaded.

Sade’s singing about a Long Hard Road, and I sing along, scratchy-voiced and sniffling. Outside the landlord’s kids are playing, one four-year-old and one two.

And these are good days, this combination of dirt and sharp light.

February 14 2010 marked the 19th annual Women’s Memorial March, organised by the residents of Vancover’s Downtown Eastside to commemorate the lives of murdered or missing women from the neighborhood. Approximately 2,000 people attended the march this year.

Much love and respect to the elders and the bereaved, and to everyone who has suffered not only the loss of loved ones, but the wilful erasure by state institutions of that violence from mainstream consciousness.

More pictures on Flickr.

About midway through the march, the procession paused in front of the Vancouver Police Department, where elders spoke about police complicity in violence against Aboriginal women in Canada.

There are over 500 cases of missing or murdered aboriginal women in Canada. Except for a mere handful, those cases remain open, triggering a demand for a public inquiry into the policing of crimes against Aboriginal women. The violence and policy apathy is especially pronounced in British Columbia — 15 women were murdered by Robert Pickton after the police officially began investigating him.

Even the UN has demanded Stephen Harper investigate why the deaths and disappearances of aboriginal women remain unsolved (Nov 2008). To date, the Canadian government has not responded.

Hello, Weldon!

The interview process will take place on Thursday February 11th at a time between 10am and 11:30am at a location to be determined.
– email, Feb 9.

The other night I went to the world’s worst hip hop show. I need to believe it was the worst, though it likely wasn’t, because if this city can do worse than this, I’m giving up on all hope right here and right now.

I’m not going to get into how fucked it is for a hip hop show to consist of white boys in dreadlocks rapping to an almost exclusively white audience (including one guy in a do-rag), because others have written about that phenomenon more intelligently and less crassly than I could. But there were some details specific to the show that I’d like to believe were unique.

One of the rappers wore a fur tail (fake, I’m hoping) pinned to his bottom; he never explained why. He and his partner performed a song about how they got his sister off pads and onto menstrual cups; he used the word “temple” at one point, but I can’t remember the exact reference because I’m mostly suppressing the memory.

During the intermission the MC said, “I don’t know why anarchists haven’t taken over hip hop,” which made me swallow my drink the wrong way, setting my trachea on fire. I nearly hacked to death.

Perhaps less surprising (given the show was billed to an activist community), but no less gagworthy, was when the rappers called on their soundcheck person to do an impromptu performance — only because she was female. That kind of unselfconscious tokenism around gender dovetails beautifully with how resistance in hip hop music and cultures gets co-opted by white anarchists who think screeching “Fuck the system!” ten times makes for an acceptable hook.

There’s a lot of discussion around the larger phenomenon of young white men co-opting rap and adopting its assumed culture (no matter that that stereotype gets constantly teased by current mainstream black musicians), but there’s something more specific to how white activists co-opt these things. My sense is that their self-identification as “activists” is precisely the mechanism by which they allow themselves to be this ludicrously oblivious to the racial politics that they’re fooling around with. In other words, the problems of entitlement and self-awareness not only do not become less pressing within activist and/or anarchist communities, but in fact are re-entrenched through this notion that by being activist we’re all necessarily beyond this kind of petty squabbling over the ever-fraught intersections of art and history.

So it’s nice to come home to songs and videos like The Remnant’s “Know This“. The lyrics are cheesy as hell (will boys ever, ever get off the woman-as-muse hack), but the boys are pretty and have style, and the filming is so cute (I wish I’d filmed it). And, for the P&P aficionados among you, there’s a Jane Austen reference in there (or so he says, someone else run a check).

I want to get old, grow a gut that I suck in when I’m next to you. Sixty odd years old and still trying to impress you.

“The result would be to taunt the tort.”
– Wittman in Fiala v. Cechmanek (2001)

It’s just past midnight on Saturday outside Commercial Station. Two white police officers are ticketing a young black man — one of five in Vancouver — for skateboarding on the wrong side of the pavement.
“But I already got ticketed twice!” he protests.
And so they give him a third.
They turn around after he leaves and watch my friends and me watching them. One of them locks eyes with me and I look away.

This morning I woke to the sound of helicopters overheard, a roar that’s been a mainstay for the week over the city’s less yuppie sections. But now this air security spreads westward, encroaching onto the carefully hedged peaces of Vancouver’s richest neighbourhoods, bringing with it hoards of drunken middle-aged men who clump these streets at night. I start to become cautious about where I go when I go out.

There’s still a week to go to the games. Welcome to Vancouver 2010.

In summertime village cricket is the delight of everyone. Nearly every village has its own cricket field where the young men play and the old men watch. In the village of Lintz in County Durham they have their own ground, where they have played these last 70 years. They tend it well. The wicket area is well rolled and mown. The outfield is kept short. It has a good club house for the players and seats for the onlookers. The village team play there on Saturdays and Sundays. They belong to a league, competing with the neighbouring villages. On other evenings after work they practise while the light lasts. Yet now after these 70 years a judge of the High Court has ordered that they must not play there any more. He has issued an injunction to stop them. He has done it at the instance of a newcomer who is no lover of cricket. This newcomer has built, or has had built for him, a house on the edge of the cricket ground which four years ago was a field where cattle grazed. The animals did not mind the cricket. But now this adjoining field has been turned into a housing estate. The newcomer bought one of the houses on the edge of the cricket ground. No doubt the open space was a selling point. Now he complains that when a batsman hits a six the ball has been known to land in his garden or on or near his house. His wife has got so upset about it that they always go out at week-ends. They do not go into the garden when cricket is being played. They say that this is intolerable. So they asked the judge to stop the cricket being played. And the judge, much against his will, has felt that he must order the cricket to be stopped: with the consequence, I suppose, that the Lintz Cricket Club will disappear. The cricket ground will be turned to some other use. I expect for more houses or a factory. The young men will turn to other things instead of cricket. The whole village will be much the poorer. And all this because of a newcomer who has just bought a house there next to the cricket ground.

– Denning in Miller v Jackson, 1977.

Here is something I learned in my last Property Law class.

In British Columbia if someone were to, unbeknownst to you, sell your house, the court would settle the dispute between you and the innocent purchaser of the house (by “innocent” I mean they didn’t know the purchase had been fraudulent) by giving the house to the person who bought it and giving you the house’s current market value.

The best part is that if your house ever were successfully transferred through fraud, the land registration system in BC is such that the registrar’s office would never actually notify you of the transfer. You’d only ever find out when the other dude tried to move in. At which point you’re basically required by law to hand over those keys.

Moreover, judges don’t have the authority to exercise their discretion and set things right in any other fashion, because this is a rule that’s been codified in provincial statutes.

In other words, when it comes down to it, the law sides with the 25-year-old yuppie who already has two homes and who’s about to turf the 84-year-old widow who’s lived in her bungalow for 30-odd years and has two cats and a canary buried in the backyard.

So what I’m saying is, don’t lose your house in BC.