My parents belong to the generation just before the baby boomers. They found themselves young parents in the midst of the turmoil of the sixties and while they yearned to be a part of that generation of change, they had to content themselves with watching the sixties unfold on television and in the newspapers while changing diapers, earning a living and paying down their mortgage. But in response to those times, they made a profound decision that shaped my life and my way of thinking.
What my parents did, in their own lives, in their own small way, to try be part of that new generation of change, was to change the way they raised their children. They tried, as best they could, to raise us to be free from prejudice of any kind. They wanted us to grow up to be as uniquely individual as possible. This commitment to raising free-thinking humans required that they would have to defy a lot of social conventions that were prevalent at the time.
We did not learn the religious beliefs and traditions that our parents had been raised with. We did not go to church, something which was pretty much compulsory for “decent folks” in those days.
Our parents never talked about their political beliefs to avoid influencing our thinking before we were old enough to think for ourselves. We were raised to be free agents, to question rather than just to follow the crowd.
We were taught the principles of equality and social justice. We had to share and be respectful. We were told not to judge others but to try and understand what might have happened to make them the way they were.
Whenever we misbehaved, we were always asked, “How would you like it if someone did that to you?”
We were taught about responsibility and consequences and the truth. My parents never hesitated to answer any question we posed to them as truthfully as they could. This meant that no subject was taboo. Suffice it to say kids ask the darndest things.
We were told that the class system was something that existed only if you believed in it. Having no money wasn’t what made a person poor. You could never be poor if you had your self-respect and you treated others the way you would like to be treated yourself. Your actions were what defined the kind of person you were, not how much money you had in your pocket.
Right about now you might be thinking my parents were kindly saints of some kind. Far from it. My parents were tough. They were sparing with sympathy. They did not baby us if we were sick. They pushed us to get well. We were pushed to achieve, to keep our promises and to live up to our responsibilities. Don’t quit. Don’t say you can’t. Get the job done.
If you came home crying because some other kids had teased you or pushed you around, you’d usually be told something like, “Life can be mean, you need to toughen up. Stand up for yourself. Believe in yourself. Don’t let them make you cry.”
Now here comes the tricky part. My parents were tough-minded but they did not believe in violence as a way to solve problems. Violence was a last resort and there were a lot of conditions applied to the circumstances under which you could fight back.
We were encouraged to use intelligence and reason in solving problems first. Think before you act. Use your brain not just your fists. Generally you were encouraged to ignore people and walk away whenever possible, while acknowledging there might be times you’d have to stand and fight. “Never throw the first punch. Be ready to defend yourself if you have to but never use undue force.” In other words, you could do what was necessary to get your opponent to back off but you couldn’t beat them to a pulp.
I can honestly say I was in no way appreciative of my unconventional upbringing while I was living it. In fact, there were times when I bitterly resented my parents. It was challenging to be fair to other people when you felt you were not treated fairly yourself. Given the upper hand, it was hard not to beat the crap out of another kid who’d been bullying and taunting you for weeks. Sharing your toys with other kids who never shared anything with you seemed a mighty injustice. Walking away when kids called you names was nearly unbearable, especially for someone like me who has a brain bursting with witty comebacks and biting sarcasm.
I often wished my parents had just let us be “normal” and wondered what was so bad about being like other people. What was so bad about fitting in? What was so bad about going to church and believing in a god of some kind?
Most of my early conflicts in life came from getting into altercations over religion. Atheism was not well received as a lifestyle choice in the early sixties. In those days when you registered at a new school you had to fill out an information form and you had to identify what religion you followed along with your home address, phone number and the name of your doctor. Writing “none” instead of a religious faith usually resulted in an awkward phone call to my mother who had to explain and justify her non-religious parenting choice.
These kinds of conflicts resulted in what we would now call “teachable moments” wherein my parents could explain the concept of non-conformity and the dangers of hive mind thinking. Being an atheist in a Christian world also gave me a rare perspective on what it means to be “different” in a society that often wants everyone to be the same. All I had to do to blend in was pretend to be the same. It would have been so easy and doing otherwise was certainly a character builder that I did not fully appreciate until I was much older.
Somewhere along the line, I began to see myself as being a warrior in service of free thought and individuality. Why should I do something just because other people were doing it and wanted to force me to do it too? Of course this backfired a little for my parents because with my new respect for non-conformism also came a healthy disrespect for authority just as I was becoming a nasty teenager. Hence the adoption of my favourite phrase, “You’re not the boss of me.” This challenge necessitated a new conversation with my parents on the concept of citizenship. “With freedom comes responsibility.” I should’ve known there was a catch.
Eventually society evolved and caught up to me. Coming of age in the late 70s, I was uniquely prepared to fit in with the new world order. I was an engaged young person and when I was old enough to vote for the first time, I was excited to get out there and do my thing. So I earnestly set about to become informed in order to make the right political choice.
The first thing I noticed when talking to the various political partisans who came to court my vote, was how much those conversations reminded me of my first encounters with religious zealots. Many of the campaign workers I met had been well prepared to forcefully recite a script but seemed unable to explain or defend the policies of their party. This was disappointing to say the least. After a lifetime of resisting the hive mind of religion and social conformity, I was not about to succumb to the hive mind of politics.
My first experience with politics was so distasteful and off-putting that I came pretty close to walking away from politics altogether. Then one day a politician knocked on the door who really knew how to talk to me like a human being. He made eye contact, talked to me like a respected equal and took the time to have an honest conversation with me. During that conversation I got the best advice I’ve ever gotten about politics. Don’t just vote for a party, vote for the whole package. Learn what each party is offering, look at the person who is running in your riding and make your choice based on the big picture. It’s not always about which party you want to win, it’s also about the kind of person you want to represent you in Ottawa.
It would be unreasonable to expect and untruthful to claim that the Liberal Party of Canada has always been the perfect embodiment of all my personal beliefs but as it turns out, over the years, more often than not, the person I’ve wanted to send to Ottawa to represent me has been a Liberal.
Lately I’ve been reflecting on why politics matters in my life. It would be so much easier to walk away and forget the whole thing. Of course, given what I’ve just told you about my upbringing, you can probably understand why I’m still here and why I’ll never give up. In my own life, in my own small way, I keep trying to be a warrior in service of free thought and individuality.
