I was raised in a home where voting was private. I once asked my mom who she was voting for, and she told me it was a rude question to ask anyone. She never answered my question.
It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me — I never ask anyone who they are voting for.
Growing up not knowing people’s political views, and never asking, gave me the opportunity to focus on the people themselves.
One time in a Grade 8 science class, the teacher was discussing inherited traits and heredity. The homework was to record the eye and hair colour of family members, and see if they could roll their tongues and a few other physical traits.
After, the teacher asked students what they had discovered and which parent may have passed on traits to them.
At that time, a boy in my class approached me. We knew each other and would talk once in a while, but we weren’t close friends or anything.
He said: “Let’s get out of here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because we’re both adopted,” he said motioning toward the door.
At this point in my school career, I’d never skipped a class, but I was intrigued.
My classmate and I walked in the halls, being careful not to be spotted by a teacher. We hung out and chatted.
It’s a moment that I remember fondly and have carried with me. He created a situation where we both belonged, removing me from one that could only remind me that I was different and of the luxury of what knowing where you come from brings.
I’ve written about my middle-school years in the past. I wrote a column when my former math teacher Michael Gregory died by suicide five days after he was charged with sexual offences against several former students.
The science teacher I reference in this story was given a three-year prison term in 2010 for sexual offences against students. Many things have emerged from that small middle school in Calgary.
When the bell rang, my fellow adopted classmate and I found our way back to our science classroom to get our backpacks. We were met by a very angry teacher.
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just leave class like that! Explain yourselves.”
We quietly explained that we were both adopted, and he calmed down and told us to grab our bags and head to our next class.
One day, I shared this story with a young girl who was having a hard time with being adopted. Children in her class were asking her: “Why didn’t your real parents want you?” and a slew of other horrible questions a nine-year-old should never be faced with.
As I shared the story, I thought about my classmate and decided to search Facebook and see what he’s been up to. I found him and sent him a message about the story I told.
After sending the message, I scrolled through his profile and saw posts, photos and articles about his brother, Pierre Poilievre.
Not long after, Poilievre was announced leader of the Conservative Party of Canada.
Politics aside (yes, I know there was a municipal election yesterday), we can find support, solace, understanding and a place of belonging with people who are different from us, who have different viewpoints and different political values.
We don’t have to like everyone, and we certainly don’t have to vote for people we don’t want to, but let’s not see someone’s label over the person they are.
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