Remembrance: Freedom for Whom?

Reflections on Remembrance Day 2024

Photo by raquel raclette on Unsplash

When I was a kid, I remember having the day off on November 11th. I also remember being one of the kids chosen to lay a wreath at the Stratford, Ontario cenotaph or even the one to recite “In Flanders Fields”. I can still remember the poem by heart. Our family always got dressed up and observed the somber occasion. I have never held back approaching a Canadian officer in uniform, no matter what time of year, to thank them for their service, often in tears myself. I remember watching (and covering as an audio reporter) the Warrior Parade and the service at the cenotaph in London, Ontario. And observing the moment of silence as The Last Stand was played.

My grandfather and his brother served in WWII. Grandpa Stafford died when I was 5, so I really didn’t get to know him. Folks say he was a quiet man anyway, but when he came home from the war, he never spoke of it. It was drilled into us that folks fought for the rights and freedoms we enjoy today.

On this Remembrance Day, however, I’m thinking about what freedom means.

I’m a white cisgendered, heterosexual woman, married to a white man, with all the comfort that affords me.

Yes, I have freedom. But I understand that not everyone enjoys the same freedom I do.

On September 9, 1939, eight days after Germany’s invasion of Poland, Canada’s Parliament voted to declare war on Germany, which the country did the next day. Canada entered that war reluctantly, largely as Britain’s ally, joining with American forces to defend North America.

Hitler was a charmer and a master of deceit. We all know the results of his hatred and his influence that led to the murder of more than 6 million Jewish men, women and children, people murdered for their identity.

We entered the war as to not be an embarrassment to our allies, not solely because we believed what Hitler was doing was wrong. Without the benefit of smart phones and the internet, many of the soldiers fighting in the war, were unaware of the extent of Hitler’s reign of terror until it was too late and the war was over.

We are burying our heads in the sand at this moment.

I mentioned my privilege, as a white cis, hetero woman, I’m second in command. I say command because I follow a comfort protocol.

I’m married to a white man. That protects me. And by saying nothing, it secures that comfort.

My husband’s white mom is dying in hospital. She is in palliative care, although she is not on a palliative floor in the hospital because they don’t have a bed for her. The woman in the bed next to her, sharing the room, another white woman, has been abusive to nursing and PSW staff, but particularly to the women of colour caring for her (and there are many). While the neighbouring woman was in the washroom, I stood up and hugged two of the women of colour. I said you do an amazing job. I know no one talks about it, but I see the racism, I see you, I see what’s happening here. We stood in silence staring at each other for what seemed like a long time. I had tears in my eyes. One of them said thank you. Later, I watched one of the ‘charge’ nurses treat one of the nurses of colour I’d just spoken with, with particular disdain. I recognized her racism too.

I thought about writing a letter to the hospital administration about what I’ve witnessed but will that affect how my husband’s mom is treated? How will that affect the experience of those women of colour I witnessed? Will it make things worse for them? What freedom do they have? Are they free report the racism they experience?

I also thought about the abusive white woman. What’s her story?

She’s about how old my mom mom might be. My mom died of cancer in 2015 but my mom had white women rage.

She spent her whole life bowing down to patriarchy, trying to play the game but also still trying to fight for own independence. She discouraged me from speaking up and from leaving relationships in a hurry. (She once said to me after a breakup, “Couldn’t you have been just a little more needy?” She was serious.) I think she wanted me to have an easier time of it. I questioned her decisions and her actions and held her accountable, and she absolutely hated it. Our family refused to hold on to the hot potato of discomfort, but would rather throw it back to the person who created the discomfort and shame them for bringing things up. That would be me.

And still, I can’t ignore the hot potato. Even though it’s taken me years to hold on to it for any length of time, I knew it had to be held by someone. And I hold on, for varying times and for various topics.

And so on this day of remembrance, I’m asking others to hold on to the hot potato and sit in the discomfort.

You know there are inequities and you think you’re powerless to do anything about it. But the one thing you can do to start, is to hold on to that hot potato. Hold it, no matter how much it hurts and feels awful, even if it burns your hands. You know it, you can feel it in your body. Something is really wrong.

It’s generational.

All the words unsaid about what happened during the war. The trauma, the PTSD, the addictions to hide that trauma, the absence of the person who left for war, never to return as the same human. The anger of being the one to hold on to what they had to do, what no human was ever meant to do, to kill a stranger. And then taking that anger out on people around them, because it had nowhere else to go, or worse, on themselves.

The anger of women who stayed home, took care of children, worked in factories, held everything together at home, only to have a stranger come back, sometimes an angry stranger, an abusive stranger, an alcoholic, chain-smoking stranger, sometimes the stranger found comfort in a woman in a faraway land, that wasn’t his wife.

We don’t talk about that part. We ignore that part. We don’t want to hold on to that hot potato.

And if white people don’t hold onto the discomfort, they’ll never see it. They’ll keep numbing and blaming everyone else for their plight, their utter despair. That hole of despair can’t be filled with money, nor power, nor status, it’s still there, it’s always there.

That hot potato will keep being thrown around, misdirected and shrouded in shame, until someone decides to hold it.

This Remembrance Day, what is freedom? And for whom? Do you really feel FREE?

I’m throwing the hot potato to you, will you hold it, even just for awhile?