An open letter to my son, on who gets to be safe on our streets

– Hey Isaac?

– Yeah?

– How did you feel about walking to B’s house all by yourself yesterday?

– [Two thumbs up]

– Did you feel like you knew you were doing?

– Yes.

– Like you knew where you were going?

– Yes, but I had to stop and smell some of the roses along the way.

In my post this week on Today's Parent, an open letter to Isaac about just which of our sons get to be safe on our streets:

[,,,]

You probably could’ve taken this step—this series of steps—earlier. You’re seven, starting second grade. But we’ve held off  for several reasons, chief of which is fear. Not fear that you couldn’t do it. Not fear that you might be abducted, hurt, or worse. We were scared of what people might think of us for letting you walk down (not to mention cross) neighbourhood streets alone at age five, six, seven. We were scared that we might get arrested, or cited by the Children’s Aid Society.

 Which is ridiculous on so many levels. Statistics Canada reports that Canada’s crime rate is the lowest it’s been since 1972, both in terms of absolute numbers and severity. Child abduction by strangers is astonishingly rare here, too—overwhelmingly, children who go missing are taken by family members and close “friends.” In other words, our kids may be better off playing alone or with their peers in the park than under close supervision by people they know—although you wouldn’t know that when police in the United States lock up parents of seven-year-olds and nine-year-olds for walking by themselves to or playing alone at the park (things I did freely at your age, by the way, Isaac).

I resent that fear. I resent its effects on your own freedom and independence, as well as on mine. I resent the warped view it gives us both of society and its relative safety. I resent the misplaced focus on this so-called well-being of our children, of the misguided reliance on police involvement to keep them safe—and I resent it these days especially in light of the police shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, and the police shootings of so many other young black men in the United States. Sure, lots of people are not safe on North American streets, Isaac, but (and this is entirely unfair) you’re not one of them, at least not on our street. And I deeply resent, on behalf of society as a whole, the sharp racial and class divides that make going to the police unthinkable for some people and entirely too easy for others.

You can read the rest here. Have a peaceful weekend, everyone.

Friday favourites: Platinum Dirt, Ski Queen, Until the End of the World

Here's some stuff that's inspiring me lately:

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The soundtrack from Wim Wenders’s Until the End of the World. I saw the movie with my friend Peter sometime during a Montréal summer in 1991, and then I listened to the soundtrack obsessively for years. I pulled it out it out during a recent road trip and it's still so evocative. I need to watch the movie again. The premise — (loosely) people becoming addicted to revisiting their dreams — seems so prescient/relevant these days, when so much of our lives is chronicled and available online. How long will it be until we can see each other's dreams? Here's my battered CD copy.

(Speaking of movies, we watched the original Karate Kid for family movie night a week or so ago. Still totally awesome, and I love the kookiness of its premise: in six weeks, YOU TOO can not only get the girl but ALSO become California's reigning black belt karate champion! All you have to do is landscape Pat Morita’s yard! More seriously, though, I love how director John G. Avildsen just lets the story unfold in its own sweet time. They don't make patient movies like that any more.)

New pens! I’ve been writing with these since forever and still love them.

My new “shark” bag from bag Platinum Dirt: I splurged on this one while I was in California, and am now regretting not splurging further on a couple arm cuffs and other accessories. You guys, this bag curves around my body and is made from recycled Cadillac leather upholstery. Plus it has two inside pockets and one of them is lined with fuzzy, fuzzy material. It holds everything, and it doubles my cool quotient just by wearing it. Plus it looks like a shark fin in backpack mode. 

This cheese. I hear Norwegians eat it for breakfast, which is another reason why Norwegians are so sexy. It's like caramel. But cheese.

An atheist walks into a synagogue with her kids…

I made these. For reals.

I made these. For reals.

My latest post on Todays Parent explains why, as an atheist, I still take my kids to synagogue. Reason #1: Community.

Community: We live in Thunder Bay, Ontario, population 110,000. Of that 110,000, approximately 50 people are Jews. I’m not kidding. When I take my kids to synagogue and they celebrate Shabbat and Hanukkah and Rosh Hashanah with a couple of dozen (or just a few) other Jewish people, it lets them know that they’re not alone, that they’re part of something larger, that they’re not freaks.

You can read the other reasons here