A Valentine’s Love Letter to my Community

“An appropriate symbol for the process of celebrating life, enduring limits, and resisting injustice … is the beloved community…. The beloved community names the matrix within which life is celebrated, love is worshipped, and partial victories over injustice lay the groundwork for further acts of criticism and courageous defiance. From within the matrix of beloved community, there is a solid basis for social critique and self criticism: the life-giving love constitutive of solidarity with the oppressed and love of oneself.” ~ Sharon Welch, The Feminist Ethic of Risk

Here we are….another Valentine’s Day.

Walking through the Eaton’s Centre over my lunch break, I stole a glance at the inside of Carleton Cards. The aisles were stuffed to the brim with people on their lunch break, trying to find an accurate break-down of their affections for their lover in a 5″ by 7″ card that’s priced the same as what their lunch probably cost. Further along the path, going towards my gym, I see a new floral store has temporarily set up shop in a leased retail space, selling these spindly, bruised roses for $11 a stem. I counted at least 6 people looking at them.

I shook my head. That sort of pressure is ridiculous. Romantic gestures are important, but not when it’s prescribed and prepackaged. Not to mention a total rip off.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually really like Valentine’s Day. It’s the day when love is recognized, and appreciated – and while one may argue that we must tenderly hold reverence for the fragility and beauty of loving relationships on a daily (or at least  semi-regular) basis, we all know that that’s not the case. People are busy, lives are hectic, egos and insecurities collide and stew…gestures, expressions of love, kind thoughts and actions, psychospiritual sexual intimacy, that in-the-moment-just-want-to-kiss-you-,-press-my-body-against-yours-and-feel-your-heart-pound-through-your-chest-and-into-mine, all tends to get lost in the shuffle. And so, for those of us who haven’t quite succumbed to the notion that every holiday is a commercial write off, Valentine’s Day serves as a time where we can remember that we are as much lovers as we are fighters. Maybe even moreso.

I remember a conversation I had with my dad this past summer, just after my 25th birthday. It was a few weeks shy of my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary, and I marked a one-year anniversary of being single after 3 1/2 years of being with my ex. We were talking about the sustainability of relationships. My parents had raised me to believe that most marriages and long-term partnerships were like theirs – solid, constant, devoted. But as I grew older, divorces and separations in my family and extended community circle multiplied. Many of those who remained married (as good Catholics do), suffered quietly in loveless partnerships. I came to realize that most women did not so fiercely protect their husband’s well-being, the way my mother did….nor did most men shower loving affection and consideration towards their wives the way my dad does. My parents hold hands when walking through the mall, they talk and giggle, debate, and drink their coffee together every morning. They certainly don’t have a perfect relationship, but definitely an ideal one. Their mutual enjoyment of each other’s company, after 40 years of marriage,  nowadays seems like an exception to the rule.

I told my dad I believed this now – that durable love is rare. Furthermore, after speaking about my own personal, spiritual and career goals with an Aboriginal elder at camp this summer, I had come to  an understanding that I should devote myself to the work of trying to help and protect others in my community. I wasn’t cut out for this romantic-partnership-domestic stuff, no matter how lovely it seemed. I may never find a partner, and I was actually at peace with that. Besides, I don’t handle myself very well in relationships – the vulnerability rattles me, knocking me off-balance, landing me ass-over-tea kettle in my own awkward emotions.

My dad considered what I had to say and shifted uneasily in his chair. He told me he didn’t like the idea of me being the mistress of the community, and didn’t believe I would never find a partner. He admitted that the relationship he had with my mom was indeed quite devoted and actively romantic, unlike some other couples we knew.

“That’s why they must also be your dearest friend”, he said, “You know, Emily…partnerships are essentially very close friendships. It’s about two people, with their backs against each other, hands clasped together, ready to take on the world.”

But I believe we can be partnered to many things, not just people. Partnered to our passions. Partnered to our ideals. Partnered to our jobs. Partnered to our communities. Ideally, these partnerships nourish our minds and souls with new knowledge and understandings, electrically charging our inward thoughts with bold concepts, awakening us to a higher ground. Likewise, every individual brings in their unique approach and understanding into the ever-constructing narrative of our abstractions and environments

 On this Valentine’s Day, I cannot help but appreciate the partnership I have with my community- which, for me, centres at core in Kensington Market, but branches out into the Annex and Little Italy. Coming to first live here in August 2008 was a bit like going on a first date – I knew a some of the background of the area, liked the values it represented, and felt seduced and attracted to esthetic appeal. I wasn’t expecting much, just that it could be a cool place to live. Perhaps I would find something better…perhaps I would want to go further into the sinews of the west-end Brownstones, or live somewhere exotic like Gerrard and Greenwood, or maybe I’d like the familiar pseudo-suburban yuppiness of Yonge and Eglinton.

But since moving here, I discovered that once I got past the gorgeous face and body of the area, there was more to be offered about this place: the idealist part-time workers, students and bohos who imprint the streets and rent here; the constant lineup of small venue concerts, poetry slams and djembe jams. The hidden gems of the Green Room and the corner of Clinton St. and Henderson Ave. I was romanced by the arboured pathways through Trinity College, playfully tickled by thick, warm afternoons in Bellevue Park, sweetened by the gelaterias, soothed by the Zen Buddhist temple, sparked alive by the sonorous cacophony of P.S.K. The area challenged me, held me, taught me, nurtured me, annoyed me, played with me, sang to me,  wrestled with me, fought with me, read to me, danced with me, and so on…stretching me out of my comfort zones and into a whole new field of self-exploration and understanding. I came at once someone completely new, but then wholly myself. I couldn’t help but fall in love.

Beloved community….how dearly I do love you! How tenderly I hold the cherished lessons you have taught me in my chest. I am so thankful that I am here. All my life I’ve wanted to be somewhere where I could  feel both grounded and alive. Somewhere to feel, as they say, ‘bien dans sa peau’. You took me by the hand, brought me closer and closer to you, and gently undressed me, exposing my good qualities, and my bad….and loving me for it all the same. In you, I have come to love myself. In you, I have found a home. And even if this all ends, and I end up leaving you for a new community, and new borough to rest my head,  I  know that the precious affection between us would never go away. This love for you, my community, I can say with total sincerity and deepest honesty, will not fade.

About a month ago I stumbled upon the photography of Nick Brandt, a eco-conservationist and photographer who takes dramatic wildlife pictures set in the east African bushes and plains.  Through the portfolio of warrior elephants and limp-lipped chimpanzees, he includes several pictures of lion prides. The one below, called Lions Head to Head Masai Mara, was by far my favourite. For me, it perfectly represents what I believe is my ideal partnership – two entities, autonomous and equal in strength, both lodged firmly in community, yet together devoted and looking out towards what comes over the horizon.

Here, in Kensington Market, the Annex, and Little Italy, I feel I have my back to my pride. Our hands clasped together. Safe and strong, through this  communal relationship, I can truly take on anything that comes my way.