On August 16, I said good-bye and began my very slow journey back to the west coast. What a change it’s been, after weeks of driving and working, to now have a pause in Calgary. Yet even entering the bosom of familiar territory and family, there is unease.
Their clothes are well-worn and tattered t-shirts, pants, and dresses, some badly ripped. Their feet are bare, of course, and they have the range of expressions any group of children would have when faced with a novel stranger: shy, eager, bold, cool, playful. Some of them seem very curious [...]
After a short time of arriving in Lilongwe, I noticed that I was not really seeing black people in the same way I saw white people. I wasn't seeing them as people with whom I could be in relationship, or as my equals. It was as if we co-existed in parallel, but different, worlds.
In 2010, I bought a 1994 dark blue Jeep Cherokee, packed all my belongings into a small U-Haul trailer, and drove from Vancouver across Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Ontario. Ten years later, recent events have me reflecting on one particular experience along the way.