What Cancer Has Taught me, Part 359: How to Overcome the Haters

"Always remember that others may hate you but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself." - Richard M. Nixon

Confession: I hate being hated.

No, I’m not proud of that hating-being-hated thing. The very phrase is irrational. You and I both know that I’ve realized I’m not – nor are many of us – going to be popular. But there’s a vast difference between being popular and being despised. And though I’m desperately trying to turn those parts of myself that have been against things to be for them, this week, I’m having a little trouble with that.

I never realized just how much I love being from this part of the world, until this past week and a half, when almost all the scuttlebutt is antagonistic towards this place and these people. That’s not to say that everyone thinks negatively about us – for that would be unreasonable and sort of despair-inspiring, wouldn’t it? But unfortunately most who care to discuss the elephant-in-the-room tend to mock and scorn VanCity and its people, and remind me frequently of what we’ve done and what we’ve failed to do.

Or rather, what Vancouver has done, and what the Vancouver Canucks have failed to do.

Interesting that the line between those two things has blurred recently; we have become our hockey team, and our hockey team has become us.

Now, back at the beginning of the month, that was a pretty good thing, hey? All the “cool kids” were planning the Cup Parade for our beautiful city – down Georgia or Granville? Smithe or Robson? – and even a few Americans and Albertans were joining the Canuck Train. The Skytrain sounded like a launch of Disney’s “California Screamin’” rollercoaster at each stop, and people could sense that a really great party was coming. Four weeks later, the “cool kids” are pointing their fingers and laughing – no, scorning – the team, and the city, whose party they once joined.

It’s unfortunate for all of us that the same people who gravitate to you while you’re having a good time, are those who run away first when things fall apart.

If I rewind to January 2009, I remember a few people who responded to learning I had leukemia with the same distance. They asked me if I thought I’d done anything bad to deserve this, which was painful, since I’d just come out of a season of disappointment in a role that I loved. These people likely meant well, or at least I hope they did, as they tried to help me identify any major error in my life that might have led me to something so exacting. Was it something physical? Like what I ate or how much I exercised? Was I getting enough sleep? Stretching enough? Drinking enough water? Taking enough vitamins? Should I have taken more life-changing supplements? Or was it something more complex - the stress of unforgiveness, or a broken relationship?

It is a terrifying unsettled-ness to think you have caused your own demise, to think you might deserve something awful to happen to you; to think that I had earned the constant bone pain, the overwhelming exhaustion, the accelerating crowding of my bloodstream, all while trying to raise a three-year-old daughter and abruptly wean an-eight-month-old baby was paralyzing. It ground salt into my already-gaping wounds to think I could have merited the punishment to die before I turned 30.

Just as, apparently, the city of Vancouver has now earned the punishment of the world’s derision, or even hate?, for the unfortunate events in our city, on - how appropriate - the ides of June.

At first I thought it would go away, that the next big event would come along and the media, along with our southern neighbours and fellow countrymen, would divert their attentions to something far newer or more significant.

But here we are, nearly two weeks later, and our team – or our city, I’m still unsure which, entirely – is still getting booed. And, I have a sinking feeling it’s likely going to continue.

Take for example, the NHL awards of last week. Jay Mohr, along with several of his presenters, despite poking fun at most of the influential hockey cities of this past year, when mentioning our city, laced his jokes with far more bite than fun. The ‘come on, what were you thinking’, and ‘didn’t the mounds of marijuana help calm you down’ jabs had real force behind them. And, he insisted that all those in the audience – yes, they were likely Canuck fans – get kicked out of the awards show when he asked the crowd to applaud Bettman, and instead, they booed him.

Classless, he called it.

I admit, I’m not proud of it, but that part made me laugh just a little.

Now fast forward a couple days to the NHL draft. The only team booed at the opening was, of course, Vancouver. And though at first I thought it was jealousy – we were the team to beat this year, after all, right? – I realized it had to be much more than that, considering we were beaten. It was over. We had lost.

So, why did the crowd in Minnesota continue jeering? Was it because of the riots, in which our hockey team had no participation?

But, in any case, according to the internet, this kind of booing was not only not classless, but actually justified, for ‘Vancouver was in no position to be judging anyone right now’.

And, apparently everyone else is. Sigh.

Our booing of Bettman, classless. Their booing of us, justified. Why, of course? - Because we’d done something bad.

I won’t argue with the bad part, but ...

Most non-Vancouverites believe that we have a hate problem. Even many who live here think that we’re emotional misfits, that we’re overly angry. Twitter feels so strongly about our riot that many are calling others to hate us, to #embracethehate. Team 1040 speculates that many teams who are having difficulty selling tickets may even stoop to the marketing technique of “hey the Canucks are in town, come watch us hate them.”

Now, I know we have a pretty large group of roadies in Canuck Nation, but this is kind of, well... what in the world is going on?

I agree, that what a few of us did on June 15^th actually boils down to the definition of a hate crime, in that their actions showed extreme hate for our city and its people, or maybe extreme hate for something else that was misdirected at us for whatever reason, and that those actions were indeed criminal. Those involved are being punished for their actions, not only by law-enforcement, but by the rest of our citizens. Some public rioters have been forced either into citizen house arrest or to leave the city as a result of receiving death threats. Some of these rioters seem unrepentant for their actions, but many woke up the next day and thought, what on earth did I do??

And really, haven’t we all had moments like that?

See, I still believe that the riots were something we didn’t want to happen, something the True Vancouver, the best and brightest parts of us, never really wished on our city or our people. For many of us, it was something that happened to us, even if the world sees it, and perhaps rightfully so, as something we did to ourselves.

Unfortunately, though, most of us are grieving something that was out of our control, and yet no one seems to think we deserve any compassion.

Oh wait, I’m doing that whiny Canuck fan thing again, aren’t I? Shoot.

Vancouverites are actually increasing this problem, unfortunately. Apologizing for the mess is one thing, but continually feeling embarrassed about it is another. It allows our opponents to continue to think they are justified in what they say to us and about us. It allows our city to be continually defined by one bad night.

Imagine if we let ourselves, our individual persons, be defined by our worst night. We’d continually live with our heads down, accepting the verbal beating as though we deserved it. Or, imagine if we let ourselves be characterized by the worst things other people said about us. We’d begin to believe it, wouldn’t we? And what we believe, we act on, and we’d just continue the cycle of negativity.

Now, imagine if we let ourselves be defined by our best night, by the best things other people said about us.

What a difference, isn’t it?

I can’t imagine who I’d be if I let leukemia define me, rather than refine me. And really, Vancouver, you have a lot of best nights and best things to define you (February 28, 2010, and June 16^th, 2011, come to mind). You have a lot to be proud of. So why not let June 15^th refine you, not define you?

My hat’s off to those people, and groups, who are doing this right now. Honour Vancouver Heroes in the Riots, Vancouver Spirit Rally, True Canucks.Ca, AnthemYVR, are just a few of those initiating a different opportunity to define Vancouver, by our response.

Just as we will be defined by our response to any person or thing who opposes, or even hates us.

We have a few options to choose from as our response. Those who are pointing fingers at us right now want us to agree with them and hate ourselves. Or, maybe they want us to hate them. As the Nixon quote said at the beginning, if we do either of those things, they win.

But there is a third way, a way we lose sight of, often - a way to overcome the scorn, and hopefully, bring us closer to those that seem to be trying to remind us of why we should continue to be miserable.

And I suppose we begin along that path by trying to understand the scorn. For my part, I’ve noticed three things about those who like to point out other’s flaws: they’re insecure, afraid, and unhappy.

Let me explain.

Those with a lot of negative energy towards a group or thing tend to do so out of extreme insecurity. Most people who need to remind others of their failures do so in an attempt to forget their own. When we have to put other people down, there’s usually something deep in us that makes us feel awful, something we have to push others lower for, so we can climb above. Sometimes it’s as simple as being frustrated that someone else is getting more attention than you. Other times it’s because the thing you think so negatively about has something, or is something, that you want. As George Bernard Shaw wrote, Hatred is the coward’s revenge for being intimidated.

We also tend to react negatively towards something or someone out of fear. Those who told me that leukemia was my fault were desperately trying to find something that reassured them it couldn’t happen to them. Maybe deep down Toronto, Chicago, Calgary, Edmonton, Boston, Minnesota, or Montreal, all recognize that holy cow, this could happen to us. And, if they judge us for our riots then maybe that judgment will protect them from ever being caught in the same kind of horror. Maybe that image of our destroyed city will help them not do something equally embarrassing the next time they are presented with opportunity. We all tend to ignore that what we hate tends to be part of us, or at least we fear it is. As Nobel Prize Winner, Hermann Hesse, wrote, if (we) hate a person, (we) hate something in him that is part of ourselves. What isn’t part of (us) doesn’t disturb us.

We also tend react with hostility when we are most unhappy. Freud thought that ‘hate’ was an ego state that wished to destroy what we perceived as the source of our unhappiness. Surprisingly, it’s not those who are hated who are truly unhappy; its those doing the hating. As Coretta Scott King wrote, hate is too great a burden to bear. It injures the hater far more than it injures the hated.

So, then, if its actually the ‘haters’ who are unhappy, afraid, and insecure, it would follow that those of us who are hated – possibly for being happy, confident, and secure – are in the best position to break this divisive cycle. If we can find the strength to be happy despite the hate, to be confident in the face of fear, and to feel good about ourselves despite the trash talk, then we can not only defeat our adversaries, but we may have a good chance to dissolve their anger as well.

I will never forget that scene in Mona Lisa Smile where Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character responds to the continual spewing of venomous insults by Kirsten Dunst’s character by walking up to her and hugging her. Dunst’s character responds by breaking down and admitting what she’s really upset about – which, as usual, had nothing to do with Gyllenhaal’s character at all. I’m not suggesting that we hug everyone who insults us - though I think many of us need more hugs than we’re getting! – but I do offer that we see those who insult us in the same way, as someone who needs a hug, rather than someone I’d like to slug. At the very least, a smile goes a long way.

We can respond with love in the face of hate. When we hear people saying negative things about our city, we can either point out what we still love about where we live, or better yet, offer our own positivity about where they live. And, if we haven’t been there, we can ask them what they love about their city. Nothing turns a conversation faster than the switch of focus from a negative thing to a positive one. And let’s face it, we all just love to talk about us, don’t we? If we could compliment, or show genuine interest in the lives of those who tend to put us down – things like, how was your weekend? Or how are your kids? Or are you going to go away this summer at all? - they may feel a little less disposed to rag on us. We may even receive a smile back. And if, when asked, we could tell the beautiful stories from our city, we may gently, slowly, turn the tide of anti-Vancouver sentiment into an acceptance that we are all flawed and ambivalent; that is, we are all capable of great good and great evil. And, in times of great tragedy, we need each other’s support.

And if I could go back now and talk to all those who felt afraid about being around someone with cancer, not only would I remind them that its not contagious, just as a city’s riot does not leap from city to city just by having contact with other people from that city, but I would say that I understand their fear and I know how awful it feels to think our worst case scenario could actually happen. I get it, and I would reassure them that even IF the worst case scenario does happen, you’ll still be okay. The thing we fear the most may just be the thing that could bring the best parts of us - and the best years of our lives - to the surface.

Did you catch that, Vancouver? We’re going to be okay.

So are you, Boston, and Detroit, and Chicago.... Calgary, Edmonton, Toronto... Surrey, Abbotsford, and Agassiz... and you too, St. Paul... we’re all going to be okay.

It is never easy to overcome hate. We are all predisposed to it, and find love far more difficult. But, as 17^th-century philosopher, Rene Descartes, wrote, ‘this is how the whole scheme of things works. All good things are difficult to achieve, and bad things are very easy to get.’

Difficult, yes; but infinitely worth it.

And definitely easier if we do it together.

What Cancer - and the Canucks - Has (Have) Taught Me, Part 358: Maybe Its Not Just a Game

Okay, okay, you can put the tomatoes back in the fridge drawer. You can stifle the ridiculous laughter. Before you wonder what psychological obsession I must have to be writing about hockey, again, be assured that what I'm about to say has really just nothing to do with something that trivial. Really.

I mean, hockey - it's just a game.

Right?

That is why no one is talking about last week, isn't it? We don't really need to actually discuss the chilly grey skies shrouding this city for the past few days, do we? I mean, this is Vancouver. The moist, granite atmosphere is one of the reasons we love it, or, is at least something we assume as consequence for living in one of the most magnificently beautiful parts of the world. It couldn't be that the heathered air possibly represented a real sadness, a palpable confusion, or even sense of isolation rippling off each of us as we went about our days, telling ourselves that everything was normal.

So then, was I imagining everything? Was it all just a matter of perspective? Or were we really feeling sad about something, something that just happened to appear somewhere in the twenty-four hours we called June 15th? Was it embarrassment? Shame? Our inner child, or 'id' experiencing a sense of deep failure, perhaps?

It wasn't as if anything really big had happened to us.

Of course, there was the incredibly disconcerting images of Georgia and Cambie street the hours following said game, the lighted cars, battered law enforcement officers, and shattered glass of some of Vancouver's long-term businesses like Chapters and The Bay. But it wasn't us who did that. It wasn't you and I who trashed the city we say we love.

So, then, why did the drab skies seem so much more somber this past weekend? Was it just that the color grey was so much more noticeable, since it was no longer shielded by pandemic-proportions of blue and green?

Because really, in a matter of hours, Canuck colors went from being everywhere to absolutely nowhere. People wearing any Canuck-related gear were gawked at, glared at, and questioned, "how can you wear that? We lost." Gone were the flags, the painted cars, the super-Canuck costumes, the jerseys, the face paint, the shirts, the dog sweaters, the stuffed bears in cages guarded by orca whales, and of course, the tin foil Stanley Cups strapped onto our cars, placed in our windows, and hoisted over our heads. Gone was the buzz, the hum of a city ready and waiting to win. Instead was a giant, unspoken, unrecognized space, of ... something.

But its not about hockey, of course. We don't get depressed over a simple game. We are well-adjusted, physically and socially active, emotionally intelligent adults.

Right?

And in case we didn't ourselves recognize the absurdity of being sad about an immaterial, unsubstantial, game, the rest of our country, or rather, the whole world, and all the forces of its media, were unrelentingly blasting us with how desperately messed up we would be, if indeed we were sad about something so... so... menial.

As Rex Murphy of CBC's, "The National," said, we'd be "a pathetic pack of cowardly, destructive, losers."

To be fair, he was referring to those fans who responded with violently inappropriate behavior in the aftermath of our loss, not the ones who were sitting at home, numbly staring at our TVs as we realized we in fact must be pathetic losers if the members of our so-called 'Canuck Nation' represented us by acting out in such childish ways.

And though we may not understand it, and though we may not be proud of it, the fact remains, that for whatever reason, it happened, and our whole province seems to be in some sort of dysfunctional grief process about it. For as many who've said they've "moved on," the phrase is usually spoken in a terse, "we're done with this conversation," tone, which to me, always implies that perhaps they haven't really moved on but would prefer not to remember it. And that's okay, of course. Moving on is healthy. Moving on shows balance.

I tentatively put up my hand and admit it: I haven't quite moved on, yet. I will, but for now, I am still a little bit sad. It doesn't pervade everything I do, of course, but its there. So, either I am not in my right mind - which I am sure many of you agree with, since let's face it, I haven't been in my right mind for a long time! - or, it may be, just possibly, that its not 'just a game.'

Yes, I said it. And, I believe it. And, before you click your browser button away from this page, let me explain.

Those of you who knew my dad, well, he was very, very vocal about his love of spectator sports. He often embarrassed me with his overt displays of passion growing up. For a couple of years in high school I was a stats manager for the basketball team - I know, the reasons to call me a dork just keep piling up, don't they? - and he and mom followed me to games, along with all the other parents, making their support for our team very well known. They stood up and cheered for well-placed shots, then twisted their fists and yelled at the refs for perceived-unfair calls.

And of course, there was my dad's trademark line. Some of you guys can say it with me right now. Ready? Here we go: "Ref!!! What's wrong with you? Do you need my glasses?"

I can still see him doing this - each time, taking off his glasses and holding them out as an offering, a statement of his disagreement with the stripes and their whistles, or, occasionally, their lack of whistles.

He wasn't too unlike Roger Neilson, the former Canuck head coach whose-now-copper-immortalized-display - in front of the building where our Canucks play - of a white towel on top a hockey stick, became a symbol of protest and united challenge to the powers that be, that we aren't dumb enough to think that everything will be fair, nor blind enough to assume that everything that is done to us, we deserve.

No wonder my dad loved the Canucks so much. That was just, so, him.

My grandpa was also a diehard, multi-tasking Canucks fan/armchair coach, watching the TV, reading a newspaper, and listening to the radio all at the same time, while calling out his suggestions to the players and management, lovingly criticizing the players he perceived to have Jekyll-and-Hyde performances: "Who do we get tonight, Lanie?" He'd ask. "Jyrki Lumme? Or Jerky Lumme?" In recent years, his eyes would shut and he'd shake his head violently, complaining repeatedly that Brian Burke had insisted on getting us the "sisters."

If he could see those award-winning-yet-still-unpredictable "sisters," now.

How appropriate that these two die-hard fans - my dad and my grandpa - died within eight months of each other. They weren't blood related in the slightest, but seeing them together, lunching at Tim Horton's and cruising around town, beefing about all things Vancouver, laughing uproariously and telling the craziest jokes, over and over and over until we'd beg them to stop, most people thought they were genetically linked.

And, whether our family would like to say so or not, the Vancouver Canucks were one of those things that brought these two patriarchs of the family so close together.

It hasn't been the same since these two "peas in a pod," have been gone. Our family has been splintered, missing the centers of optimism and laughter, wondering what we do now that our favorite fun people have moved on to a much better place.

I've often joked that I could literally "hear" my dad and grandpa talk to me sometimes. I don't admit that to everyone, since they would think I'm developing a psychosis that must be Canuck-related - since hockey is apparently a bad thing, now - but these past two months its as if they were right there, again. That they were waving their towels with me as we scraped past Chicago, Kesler-bombed Smashville, and Boom-Boom-Bieksa'd over the Sharks. If they could only see us now, I would think. And it was that kind of thinking that my fifteen-year-long BFF, the loyal, fun, and fiesty-Mrs. Jana Hollinshead, was able to use to pull me up off the proverbial band-wagon jump I did after Game 5 of the Chicago series; she told me that my dad would have been severely disappointed if I gave up now. She told me, that being the sole Canuck in a family full of obnoxious Oilers, my dad and I were her Canuck family, and it was irresponsible of me to leave her all alone.

She was very persuasive.

I know you're chuckling over that. Cute, silly, whatever you think it to be, it might be a seed of something that could be incredibly, overwhelmingly important to the whole of our society. Really.

Because, I'm starting to think, its not just a game, at all.

Stick with me, here.

Anthropological studies imply that sports were originally constructed to train young boys for the adult requirements of war, to instill in them the sense that they were warriors, to teach them to band together and defeat their enemies as a team; to help them conquer, together. Modern sport psychology supports this theory, that in times - or countries - of peace, our sports heroes are our warriors.

Many enlightened, higher-thinking individuals of developed countries like our own would dismiss this idea of "sports-as-war,"declaring any who think so as base or immature. But it is hard to argue that the fiercest fans tend to be in cities and with teams that need something positive to cheer for, desperately.

Take, for example, the Philadelphia Eagles, whose rags-to-riches story was captured in the movie Invincible. For those living in the home of cheese-steak in the economic decline of the late 1970's, the Eagles - and likely the Phillies and Flyers too - became representatives of themselves, providing proof that they can be more than the struggles of economy or frustration of failure. It was following the worst Eagles season on record that local bartender, Vince Papale, joined the struggling NFL franchise and led them to a new season of - though not immediate winning - a sense of triumph, all the same. Just ask any Philly fan who is old enough to remember the Eagles of the late 70s/early 80s, and you'll see it wasn't just the players that felt hope and optimism with their NFL franchise's turn-around - it was also the community of Philadelphia, as a whole.

Another movie demonstrating the community-rebounding ability of sports, Invictus, chronicles the country-redefining power of South Africa's hosting the Rugby World Cup in 1995, mere months after dismantling the legal racial segregation in their country known as apartheid. John Carlin's book about this event is aptly subtitled, The Game That Changed a Nation. Because, in Africa, sport, namely, rugby, or soccer, too, is not just a game. As The Zimbabwean newspaper wrote on September 6, 2010, "(here... sport)... is an extravaganza, a celebration of life, full of noise, colour and energy, both on and off the pitch." Simply put, it gave them something to be excited about, something to cheer for, to hope for, together.

And how could we forget the emotional explosion of hope that filled the city of New Orleans whe the Saints won Superbowl XLIV, only a few years after Hurricane Katrina nearly wiped the entire city out? Even this past off-season, the NFL itself has acknowledged the community-building power of its Louisiana franchise. Despite the fact that the Saints organization is currently losing money, the league has refused to relocate. Even those motivated often primarily by money are choosing to recognize the significance a sports team can have to an entire city in need of daydreams, of promise.

My critical-thinking friends will challenge this suggestion, particularly those whose passions run to other diversions, whose talents are wrapped up in things other than sports. We often recognize the power of the arts to develop a city's emotional expression, to enrich the beauty or depth of their culture. We recognize the fun in diversions such as board games, reading, and physical activity. But how could following a professional sports team be that significant to the potential health of an entire city, especially a city as diverse as Vancouver, let's say? How could a metropolis so blessed with beauty and a wealth of social activities, be benefited by a mere hockey franchise, by a game that many consider to be less about skill and more about violence?

Except, its not about the game. At all.

Rather, it might be that the game is really a fundamental expression of the battles we fight in our everyday lives. Somehow in following a common team through their ups and downs, we are able to come together and emphatically declare, we will not be overcome.

Based on the media speculation following the Vancouver riots, it seems that in Canada, we seem to feel above this degree of sport-team devotion. One article termed Vancouver's preoccupation with its Canucks "pathological," "tribal," and "primitive." We're too quick-witted and mature for this, aren't we? We're too rational, reasonable, and controlled, to care about something this base. We're above this.

Pfft. Hogwash.

We like to think we are a free, peaceful, polite country. And we are, for the most part. But that does not mean we are without major, societal concerns. The drug-infused culture of the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver is a devastating example of such problems. The hidden-but-regrettably-real presence of human trafficking, and the resulting unfortunate prevalence of sex trade workers - or shall we say it bluntly? slaves - is a deep concern in our city. Not only these issues, but the growing economical concerns of British Columbia, combined with our exponentially-rising-cost-of-living, produces a culture whose late teens and early twenties worry over finding a job, period, let alone a job that pays enough to live on, and let alone a career that supports the possibility of ever owning property. Not only are vacations becoming more and more out of reach for all those but the upper class, but the prospect of simple road trips are also significantly hampered by the insanely high cost of gas.

And let's not forget the increasing road rage over our packed-sardine style of traffic.

We may rightly call those who started the riots morons, over-privileged white people who need some serious discipline for their criminal behavior. For sure, there are many professional rioters who anticipated the opportunity to steal-and-resell items of interest following Game 7 in Vancouver and traveled here solely for that purpose. And even those who got caught up in the emotional contagion of the crowd produced behavior that was outright criminal. And yes, they deserve to pay the consequence for this behavior. Our society wouldn't function without the enforcement of laws that protect our community.

But our society also won't function in an 'us vs. them' mentality, in a segregation of what we consider 'good people vs. bad people.' Sure, a physical separation from harmful people may be necessary. But this mental division, this thought that, that could never be me, is not helpful. Because maybe, if we were really honest with ourselves, we'd recognize that, given the right circumstances, we're all capable of of such horrifying violence.

And whether we understand it or not, I believe that is why we feel such shame, such responsibility. Because some of those who called themselves us, some of those who joined in with the slogan of "We are all Canucks," acted out in a very destructive, harmful, and criminal way. As my fellow-writer-friend, Jay, says: "We are all Canucks," became "We are all Cavemen." And my mother added: "Nasty Cavemen, at that." Like it or not, that night was still a part of who we, as a community around this city, really are. Ugly, embarrassing, and captured on international cameras. But there, and part of us.

We are quick to say, "That's not my Vancouver," and in a sense, we're right. But maybe what we're really trying to say, is, "That's not who I really want my Vancouver to be," or "That's not who I think my Vancouver can be."

We are quick to distance ourselves, I think, largely because the world is pointing their finger and laughing at us losers. We are desperately fighting for our reputation. And we should, but unfortunately, the reality is, that most people will judge us no matter what we do. Especially now.

Because, it was just a game, after all.

And that's what bothers me most: that many writers, reporters, and residents of Vancouver themselves, are now suggesting that because we rioted over the Canucks, the Canucks themselves - and our allegiance to hockey or sport in general - must also be bad. That our only way to heal from this is to pull back from our national past-time and seriously question why we get so involved. That our over-involvement is a sign of a lack of personal health.

Hmm. Maybe, but maybe not. In fact, the answer may be just the opposite.

Studies in sport-fan psychology - yes, such a discipline does exist! - suggest that not only does a fan's team bring them a sense of identity and self-esteem, but explain that "an intense interest in a team can actually buffer people from depression and foster feelings of self-worth," (Dev Ashish, Analyst for the Bleacher Report, Sept 26, 2008). They claim that sports allow fans a sense of escapism, not only from the struggles of daily life, but the expectations of social inhibition, allowing them to express themselves freely and lash out at opponents without being ostracized for their behavior. In fact, the freer their expression, the more they seem part of the community.

That's right, the community. For psychologists also suggest that many people find a sense of belonging and acceptance in following a sports team that they haven't found elsewhere in life.

We'd dismiss this as trivial, except that many of us are already well connected, in churches, in charities, in social groups, in work environments, in our families and friends. Its easy to disclaim the importance of the community of sports fans when we already have a community to support us in other arenas.

The sad truth, is that most of the world doesn't feel connected.

I'll never forget the moment my husband was 'hooked' into Canuck Nation. It was November 3, 2009, and we'd been offered box tickets to the Canucks-Rangers game at Rogers Arena. In the third period, the score tied, the Rangers initiated a bench-emptying brawl ending with three of their players literally sitting on top of Ryan Kesler. When Kesler got up, of course, he was given the penalty.

The building was in an uproar. After all, those of you Canuck faithfuls, will remember exactly why we hate New York. Think June 14, 1994. Game 7, Stanley Cup Finals. The final scoreboard read 3-2 New York. There were 2 disallowed Canuck goals that night. In our heads, it was 4-3 Vancouver.

But that's not what the records show.

But, I digress, silly Canuck fan that I am.

Back to 2009: Only moments after Kesler's questionable penalty, the Canucks responded with the go-ahead-and-eventual-game-winning-goal. And in those moments, the entire 18,000 of us at Rogers Arena jumped to our feet, electric with excitement. High-fives all around, the guy in front of me yelled, "You take that, New York!" Another one turned to me, high-fived and shouted with his hands above his head, "We will not go quietly!" It may have only been one, regular season game, but to many of us who were there, to those who remembered with frightening clarity the spring of 94, it represented payback, or victory, for something over 15 years old.

On the Skytrain-ride home, my husband grinned at me. "This is awesome," he said. "I made so many new friends tonight. It's like you're part of a new family or something. I love it!"

Kind of appropriate that he bought me Kesler's jersey for Christmas that year, isn't it?

When I opened it, he looked at me uncertainly. We hadn't talked about if I had a favorite player or anything, if there was a specific number I wanted to wear. It had been a long time since I owned a Canuck jersey, and then it was one of those flying skate versions with Cliff Ronning's number 7 on the back. Ever since Ronning had left the team, I had had great difficulty identifying with another favorite. So, David guessed.

And he told me he guessed Kesler, because, no matter how many times I get sat on and given the penalties of life, I get back up and fight too. He said he wanted me to know that it didn't matter what was thrown at me - even cancer, even persecution - I wore the number of a player who represented resiliency. The number of a player who reminded us of that night that we felt like a part of a new community.

The past two months, this community has only grown stronger, louder, bigger, and more confident. We let our repressed-Canadian-nature be overwhelmed by our enthusiasm for something, but it wasn't about hockey at all.

It was about each other.

I can't count the number of amazing people I talked to solely as a result of the Canucks run to the cup, incredible people I likely would never have connected with otherwise but am so glad our hockey team gave me a reason to do so. People of faith, people of no faith, those who love Vancouver and hate it, musicians, athletes, cool people and geeks, hey, even some Americans from the Pacific Northwest - I mean, even my in-laws were cheering us on enthusiastically! - we all came together for a season.

A wonderful, beautiful season.

So, really, the last thing we need to do is run away from the thing that brought us together. If anything, we need to stick together even stronger now. Talk about what happened, admit we're a little sad, both about the game and our unfortunately international loss of at least some of our reputation. Laugh about it, find the good, put the bad behind us, and move forward. That doesn't happen by flipping a switch, or denying our Canuck-nature, or our city's-intensity.

It actually happens by reaching out to those people around you and finding some point of connection with them all over again, whatever that is. We live in community. We die in isolation. There's no way I would defeat - or at least give a heck of a challenge to - cancer without the community of neighbors, family, friends, without people like you, that actually take time out of your day to read what I have to say and make sure things are going okay, and if they're not, asking what you can do about it. Even the fact that you might think about what's going on with me, makes me feel stronger and more capable of tackling this very big, very challenging enemy, that actually lives inside of me.

And, really, that's just a reminder that there is an enemy that lives inside of all of us. Something that is really big and ugly and threatens to come out every now and then. It is by grace that we escape the worst parts of ourselves. Perhaps then, we could extend a bit of that grace to those of our community who let the ugly parts show.

Perhaps, too, the rest of the world will eventually extend that grace to us. Its not as though sports riots are unique to Vancouver. Montreal, the last Canadian team to win the Stanley Cup, rioted after they won. Los Angeles, Detroit, the UK, Australia, are all familiar with rioting. And, lest we think that we were bettered by our Cup final opponents not only on but also off the ice, let us not forget that the city of Boston themselves rioted only three short years ago, after their Celtics won. And, someone died in that riot. As far as I know, no one died in Vancouver as a result of the events of June 15th.

That's kind of a sign of grace right there, right? An experience of mercy that our juvenile actions didn't result in the ultimate destruction, the loss of human life. Because, based on what I saw, that could have happened.

And, if we could accept that, as Lord of the Flies so devastatingly displayed, we are all capable of great violence, we may be more motivated to protect our community and reputation by challenging those with inappropriate behavior. Ironically, riot psychology shows that those who riot over sports may be best subdued by fellow fans, that the riot itself may be best defeated and diffused by those inside the riot circle. Psychologists suggest that if the instigators recognize that those same members of the community who embraced them for their fan-dom, are now rejecting their inappropriate reactions, they may modify their behavior accordingly.

They certainly won't modify their behavior if we're all filming it as though it is a worthy spectacle.

Some brave souls did manage to step in to the tragedy on the evening of June 15th. Many of them were injured in some way, for participation in anything will expose us to potential pain. But if we did step in, enough of us, could we have perhaps stopped - or at least curbed - the negative behavior, before it got overwhelmingly out-of-hand?

I don't know, of course. Sometimes, stepping in is unwise and unsafe. And, even when it would be wise, or when I really should do it, I'm not sure I would - or will - be strong enough to do it. But I want to be strong enough. Because this is something I'm a part of. Humanity is something I'm a part of. I need to fight not only for myself, but for them too.

This isn't what we live for, like the slogan said, not really. But it does make life a little more fun. And it makes our city a little more connected. In the world of iPhones, iPads, and a generation increasingly mediated through an explosion of electronic devices, the physical screams of a city over a game is a welcome sense of positive mayhem, a cathartic way of expressing our inner geeks, and thinking, we can do this. Together. As David told me often this past week, "I miss the high-fives." He's referring to the phenomenon that after every Canuck win, you can walk the streets of Vancouver - or heck, even Abbotsford - and high-five every other person wearing blue and green, bringing you connection with those you barely even know.

So bring on the blue and green.

Or, bring on anything that brings a sense of togetherness in an increasingly fractured culture. That we rioted over a game indicates that there is so much more there. Instead of hiding what it might mean, or shaming it, what if we reached out and tried to heal it?

We could put our city back together. We will put our city back together. How can we not?

Appropriately enough, today, the sun is out, and, miraculously in Vancouver, it feels like summer is finally here. Our grief is coming to a close, or at least to the stage of acceptance. Hockey - and hopefully the cold - is behind us, and a new season is about to start. But let's not forget what these sixty-plus-days showed us. Let's keep finding new ways to bring our community together. Whether its our minor league baseball team, our new MLS franchise, the Grey-Cup-hosting BC Lions... we need to engage with our city, not disperse. Whether we play beach volleyball, bike the seawall, take the kids to the Aquarium or zoo, let's be part of this great place to live. Whether our involvement centers around Settlers of Catan, community BBQ's, Jazz Festivals, long-weekend-fruit-picking, ice-cream eating contests, or impromptu neighborhood kids basketball games...

Let's get out there and play.

Because these aren't just games. They are representations of who we are. They are rallying points for our city, for our common goals as humankind, to look at the impossible and say, hey, maybe I can do it. And if I don't, that's okay too. There's next time. Next time I'll be better. As long as we're in ultimate competition with ourselves, and not just concerned with being better than everyone around us, we bring out the best, in us and in others. And when we see our fellow men and women acting less than themselves, less than we wish our city, or our neighborhood to be, lets not cast stones, point fingers, or distance ourselves. Lets jump in and steer them back to what it means to be 'good sports.'

Because they are good - sports, that is. And, we can be better.

Did you hear that? We can be better.

See you next year, Boston.

What Cancer - or the Canucks - Has (Have) Taught Me, Part 357: Be the Change You Wish In Others

I know what you're thinking (aren't I always so perceptive? ;). Right now you either want to 1)not read this, or 2)run to the comments section - or my facebook profile - to tell me how evil the Canucks - or their city - are, and how dare I even suggest that this tragedy actually taught me something immensely positive this week.... but hear me out first, please. I don't want to get my tear gas out. Word on the street is that the entire province is out of stock.

Ok, that was gong-worthy. But I had to try to lighten up one of the darkest days I've remembered in this part of the world. Sigh.

For those of you who have always hated - or have begun to hate - hockey, or those of you who are just tired of it, and to those of you not from the Vancouver area, or who really don't understand anything about sports or this one in particular, please know that what I'm about to say is not really about hockey at all, except, unfortunately, for the very vivid, painful, and heart-breaking sights, sounds, and smells of the city I love on one of its blackest nights.

A bit of hockey background is necessary first, though, so I hope you can indulge me. ;)

Those of you who know me well know I'm pretty vocal about my backing of the Canucks. Yes, I'll be in your face about it, even, if you count in-your-face as spouting blue-and-green, and occasionally the retro orange-yellow-red-black-white of this team who has surrounded so many of my best, and not-so-happy, childhood - and I suppose, now adult, memories. I'll challenge anything I consider even remotely untrue, unfair, or overly negative, about a team who taught me to love our national past-time, and taught me to care just as much about what happens to our city off the ice as happens on it.

Especially now, when what happens off the ice is more destructive than what happens on it.

One of the first rules of being a Canucks fan - or any fan, really: you have a choice. You can be a bandwagoner, ready to celebrate a great win and act like you were with them all along, turning on a dime and criticizing every single move the players make as soon as they lose, spraining your ankle repeatedly every year as you leap off that proverbial bandwagon. Or, you can be a Canuck faithful. One of those people who's spirits rise and fall with wins and losses, who knows they're in for a rollercoaster from the start of October through the end of (if we're lucky) May or June, who realizes there will be some tears involved at some point - no joke... I was surrounded by hundreds of grown men, "men's men," at that, on that amazing night of December 17, 2008, when Linden's jersey was raised to the rafters at Rogers Arena, all of whom had tears in their eyes. And, who can forget the images of Ryan Kesler or Chris Higgins desperately trying to stay together after last night's heartbreaking - no matter what should have been, or could have been done - Game 7 loss?

Yes, sometimes we care about things and get hurt because we care. Sometimes - okay, most of the time we don't get what we want. Some things aren't fair, or at least don't feel that way. But choosing to care is still worth it.

Aside from these above-stated obvious lessons I can pass on to my kids, there's something else that's been lurking there. Something right or wrong I could feel floating around me, the last couple of months. Something that was getting me frustrated. Something that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Again, indulge me with some more hockey background.

Second rule of being a Canucks fan: you're going to be mocked.

The moment people find out you're a Canucks fan, you'll most likely hear all about every single thing that team has done wrong. Flames and Oilers fans will love to do this to you especially. I'm accepting of it since we have a long-standing rivalry with those two teams and its part of who we are, BC and Alberta, to face off with our verbal sniper rifles from either side of one of Canada's greatest treasures, the magnificent Rocky Mountains. And, I do have a couple of university degrees and everything, so I'm not completely stupid here. I'm aware of the mistakes, the fails - both minor and epic - the tragedies, the things we Canucks wished never happened. So if you're going to be a real Canuck fan, be prepared for anyone who's not a Canucks fan, and even some of those who say they are, will be very quick to remind you of every heartache, you as a Canuck faithful, have ever had.

The last two months I've heard from so many who, their team being out of the playoffs, chose to spend their energies cheering against the Canucks. I get that - believe me, I'm not going to be very quick to congratulate Boston or Chicago fans on their successes, and I don't expect that many of their fans would be too surprised by that either ;). But with each passing series, the Canuck-hate seemed to get worse. Yesterday someone happily 'liked' a status that said Mason Raymond won't be able to play until Christmas, if he gets to return at all. 'Liked' seeing one of our players fairly seriously hurt. Seriously! For all the Patrick-Kane-finger-waving grannies of the Chicago series that made me - and Kane himself - laugh, deep down I don't think any real Canucks fan would ever want to see, say, Nathan Horton, for example, injured. Though apparently he was remarkably better by yesterday.

But I apologize. I've just given you a prime example of how many justify their ill-will towards the Canucks. It's what has become the third "rule" of being a Canucks fan: We're all whiners. We complain too much about the apparent injustices we see done to us or around us. And when we lose, we act out.

See last night, for example.

So, because of these three Canuck "rules," this morning I woke up to, not only the painful reminder that we came so close again, and missed, what we'd been after, not only the horrifying, literally physically disturbing images of the city I love being trashed to pieces by people who probably couldn't even remember their own names or why they bought the Canucks paraphernalia they just happened to be sporting, but a zillion negative, critical comments from every portion of the media telling me just how awful Canuck fans, Vancouverites, and the players themselves, must be in order for something like this to happen. Not to mention all Canuck forums/facebook pages loaded with fans of opposing teams wishing us nothing but trash and telling us how we've never been good enough and never will be.

No wonder the antibiotics I got yesterday don't really feel like they're working today. All of this garbage has only upped the ante; not only am I drippy-nosed, sore-throated, and hoarse-voiced, but I feel personally, heart-crushingly, ill.

The media is skewed, of course. I mean, they cover what's sensational, controversial. And the internet is a haven for all of the disturbed people in the world to camp out and get more messed up together. So, its not entirely accurate.

But I realized what was bothering me. Why it felt like something so much more, and nothing to do with hockey, all at the same time.

Because if we had won last night, I'd be far too busy being happy about winning to take time out of my schedule and trash the opposing team on their own fan pages, or tell my Bruin-loving friends (ok, there aren't too many of those ;) that I was thrilled that they lost.

And that's when it all made sense.

The most common word people use to describe me is passionate. Whatever I do, I do thoroughly, they say. This is true. I used to feel guilty for this. I still kind of feel sheepish. But I've tried not caring and apparently its not in my genetics. I don't know how to do that. So I care. Not about everything, of course. We'd be bleeding heart puddles of insanity if we put every ounce of energy into every tiny cause we see. As my brother says, "you gotta pick your battles, kiddo.... decide what you're willing to die on the mountain for." He's right. And, as passionate as I am about hockey, its not really what's bothering me right now.

Its actually passion itself that is bothering me. Or, rather, misdirected passion.

See, I refuse to believe there is a section of the world that just doesn't care about anything. I think those who say so are lying, or wounded, and have stuffed their own pain so deep they don't recognize it anymore. I know we all have varying degrees of passion, but I believe that for all of us, in some way shape or form, about some thing or another, its there. Think about it. There are things you care about. You might not be able to articulate it. You might not be able to even recognize it. But we all have values, assumptions, and a worldview. We like or dislike things based on said values, assumptions, and worldviews.

The trouble is when we dislike things more than we like others.

University aged groups, especially, tend to be intensely critical. I figured out by the end of my university tenure that they do that to test out value systems for themselves. They try on an attitude to figure out what they really feel about something. And the easiest way to care about something, the thing that will trigger us, is likely something we don't like. Its easier to criticize than promote something. Its harder to be for something than it is to be against.

That's what's been bothering me so much lately. Its not hockey. Its that so many of us - myself included - fall into that trap of throwing our passionate energies, our caring - into being against things, rather than for them.

There's no more vivid an example of this contrast than the vision of Vancouver last night at 9 pm and the sight of it this morning at 9 am. Last night was an angry mob, or maybe only an angry few and an unfortunate mob, leaving a path of destruction, of hate. Of being against something. This morning, however, while the first mob were nursing hangovers, thousands of a different one slowly moved among the streets they loved, quietly cleaning up the sobering, disgusting mess. Many left signs: "I am sorry on behalf of my team, and my city." This morning's group? They left a path, albeit, a largely unnoticed one, especially to the rest of the world - for what media will cover this? - of love, or perhaps an attempt at redemption, somehow. A strike out into the darkness, daring to be for something. For beauty, healing, or maybe even a stab at goodness in the middle of evil, a trickle of light in the sea of dark. A quiet statement that the inequities and destruction are not okay with us. Like the women who mopped up Jesus' blood following his scourging in the Passion of the Christ, tearfully contributing what their heart was for, while an angry mob raged on.

And then it hit me. I've wasted so much of my energy being against things. Sometimes its necessary, of course. I'm sure you can think of obvious examples. But too often, its not. And if we took a step back to realize, we would see that it might be harder to turn that hate into love, but choosing to be for something is so much better than investing in things that bring other people, or organizations, or things down.

We often stoop to fight evil with evil. We think we're going to take out hate with stronger hate of our own, and we'll win, we think, because we're right. It doesn't work, though. It just gets bigger. But this little band of cleaners, this morning.... they tried, at least, to fight evil with good. They ignored the temptation to stay inside and stepped out and said, we will be for something. No matter what is being said about us, right now, we won't hide or point the fingers to others. We'll do something.

As the over-played-but-engaging-theme for last year's Olympics said, "we'll be the change we wish in others."

And that's the challenge ahead. The world is watching, pointing, laughing, ridiculing, scourging, the inhabitants of this place I love so much. They are white-washing us with out and out lies, spreading rumors of what might have happened as truth. And we apologize, saying we're against the destruction - which is good - but how much more effective would we be if we'd go out and actually DO something to replace these images in people's heads?

I confess, I'm not exactly sure what that will look like - yet. But we'll know it when we see it.

This battle between passion and anti-passion is actually something happening in my physical body every day. For what else is cancer but the body turning against itself? What else is leukemia but the spleen and bloodstream over-reacting to its normal processes by destroying the cells that will help it, instead of forging ahead with sustaining nutrients to bring about health, feeding oxygen so we can breathe properly? And though I take drugs every day that are against the cancer gene, they work differently than the average bazooka-and-tear-gas-toting-onslaught of mainstream IV chemotherapy. They fit in the building blocks of this anti-enzyme, this cancer gene, that still has a chunk of residence in my body, and stop it from working, so that maybe, eventually, it will all die off, one chromosome at a time.

That's not too different from the men and women who forged their way out into their Vancouver neighborhoods last night, begging the rioters to stop, and pleading with them to see reason. They may not have stopped the masses, but they stood up and said, no, we are for a safe city, a good neighborhood. And kids saw them do that. For every child that witnessed horrible hate last night, there may be another somewhere who saw their mom or dad or uncle or neighbor, say, no, we'll be different than this. And if only a handful more of those kids grow up learning to handle their anger more effectively, then those individuals accomplished something.

Perhaps this is why God allows my cancer gene levels to decline as slowly as they have. For those of you who follow my progress, the counts have gone from -2.94 to -3.04 in the last few months. Not as big a drop as before, but still a drop. One cancer chromosome at a time. We keep praying that Sprycel keeps doing its job of course, and even if its slow, that's okay with me.

Just as it is in the aftermath of such senseless hate. Even if its slow, our progress in this madness, that's better than no progress at all.

So, yes, we are horrified by the mismanaged anger demonstrated in our beautiful city, in the unbelievable senselessness. But can I implore you all, instead of merely apologizing for those we have no control over, to start concentrating on what we do have control over - ourselves? Can we fight idiocy by choosing daily to be different than the insanity? Start by being who we wish those around us were? Start loving those who give us the most 'indigestion' as much as we can? And instead of just being against the rioters, can we model what it means to be for our city, for our kids, and for the beautiful earth we've been given? Whatever that means?

And to those of you fellow bleeding heart Canuck fans, can we please be for our team, even now, perhaps especially now? Tell the players you're proud of them. Share with other fans your favorite memories of an incredible season. Tell your children how happy you are that we got to all experience an emotional and, at times, extremely fun run to the cup. Those 15 wins we did get can certainly outweigh the 16th we didn't, if indeed we have as good memories as we're supposed to have.

Choose those memories. Look for the beauty around you, and celebrate it. And if you can see something right, something good, maybe those can be our topics of conversation. Our facebook statuses, our moments of reflection. If we could focus so strongly on what is best around us, rather than worst, we might see the worst and the wrong die off a little, inch by inch.

Be the change you wish in others. Stand tall for what's right. God help me, I hope I can. It won't be easy. It won't be popular. It won't always be fun. But it will be good. And, so, so, worth it.

I believe in the power that comes
From a world brought together as one
I believe together we'll fly
I believe in the power of you and I

I believe the time is right now
To stand tall and make the world proud
I believe together we'll fly
I believe in the power of you and I

I believe we can be different than this. Better. Do you? Its a choice. Please let us choose what brings life. I don't think we'll be completely alone. And with each one who chooses, who joins, we form our own, passionate, mob.

That mob, I think we'll all be proud of.

What Cancer Has Taught Me, Part 356: Embrace your Inner Dork

Hey, you, over there, keep the L up in the air
Hey, you, over there, keep the L up, cause I don't care
You can throw your sticks and
You can throw your stones
Like a rock and just watch me go, yeah
L-O-S-E-R, I can only be who I are

I know, you're thinking, what? She's excited to be a loser? And where's the first 355 parts of what cancer has taught her? Let's just say those 355 things are not really written down, because they don't need to be. Those are the givens, all the cliches anyone can imagine you'd learn from confronting your own mortality. Things that can all be wrapped up in a neat box called 'perspective' and saved away for the next time you get caught up in a melodrama that was never worth more than 30 seconds of your time or energy.

But part 356 kind of took me by surprise. It's one of those things that fit the perspective box too, sure, but I didn't expect to become so excited about it. Maybe I knew it all along, but was scared to admit it. Maybe I thought if I took that leap and said, sure, I'm a dork and I don't care, that the world would laugh, that it would make me one of those people, you know, the ones on the fringes that are always being made fun of by the cool people?

Except guess what? I am one of those people, whether I like it or not. And I finally like it.

No, not totally, of course. It hurts sometimes. Only months ago I was crying because of something humiliating someone said about me publicly. But I'm not five or fifteen anymore. I have a choice on how I handle this stuff, don't I? And I think its time for a new strategy.

Confession time: Yes, I let my girls listen to the Glee soundtrack sometimes when we're driving in the car. Wait - no, I'm not the negligent mother you think. I only let them listen to the PG-rated stuff. Some of those songs have become Noelle's favorite going-to-school music. I wasn't terribly surprised - my girls love to sing, and Glee makes just about anything singable.

Second confession: I should have caught on to what I'm about to tell you much sooner than I did. Three weeks ago, Noelle started asking for one of the Glee songs over and over on the way to and from school. Every time I'd try to change it to another she'd beg for a repeat. She'd ask for me to explain what every line means. Those of you who recognized the lyrics I quoted above will guess which song it is - "Loser Like Me," the original song composed for the recent regionals episode.

Just go ahead and hate on me and run your mouth
So everyone can hear
Hit me with the worst you got and knock me down
Baby, I don't care
Keep it up and soon enough you'll figure out
You wanna be, you wanna be a loser like me

At first I just thought Noelle had found a catchy song that was fun to sing. But Wednesday on the way home from school I realized it was much deeper than that. See, my girl, even with all the initial struggles she's had adjusting to the routine, LOVES to go to school. She loves her teacher, she loves the kids, she loves to draw and read and sing and run and just learn. She would cry and plead with me to go even when she'd be ridiculously sick to go anyways. Yet, for the last three weeks, yes, the same amount of time we've been hearing "Loser Like Me" on repeat, she's not wanted to go to school at all. I've had to coax her into getting dressed, coax her into getting her backpack, wrestle with her to want to go see all her friends.

Little did I know that that was the problem: friends.

Well, that's a loose term in elementary school, hey? I mean, let's face it: we've either all been tormented at the hands of our peers, or we've done the tormenting, those of us on the receiving end labeled 'dorks' and those on the giving end celebrated, even envied for being so 'popular.'

Before you think I'm going to rag on the 'popular' people - although, really, what the $(#*%& does that even mean anymore? - let me say I'm the first to fall into this trap. In the second-to-last year of high school, I decided I would try to 'break in' to the 'popular crowd,' both at school and at youth group, and not really for any other reason than just to see if I could do it. I did, well, sort of; I got to the place where I was allowed to come to their parties and eat lunch with them and laugh at their jokes and yeah, some of it was really, really fun. They were entertaining people who knew how to have fun. But it came at a cost. I hurt some of the people, one person in particular, I remember, who were - and guess what, still are, my longest and closest friends, people who let me be me.

Of course, I realized, not too much into my experiment even, that I would still rather spend time with the people who let me be myself and who loved me for it. Because the 'popular crowd,' as fun as they were, kind of required me to be a certain version of myself in order to have fun with them. I don't think they knew they were doing it. At least I hope not. That was just what you did when you were 'popular,' when you had that intangible 'it' factor that the rest of the world deems is definitive of success and worthy of social elevation. And when I realized that the 'it' factor was okay but was kind of exhausting to try to maintain, I went crawling back to my real friends, the ones who'd been kind enough to embrace me from the beginning, the people who knew what it meant to hurt and cared enough to reach out to others on the fringes, the ones who were already okay with their social status. I was grateful that these same people were still giving enough to forgive the hurt my foray into the metaphorical teenage elite may have caused.

I hope my girl is one of those who'll forgive the friend who's currently doing to her what I once did to my best friends, if and when she ever realizes the same thing.

For now my daughter is on the receiving end of the elementary school mocking. Noelle reluctantly admitted on the way home from school on Wednesday that the girl she thought was her best friend was now not only friends with the girl who made fun of her, but also encouraging others to make fun of her.

And of course my daughter's tears just broke my heart.

Noelle says, that at least through her five-year-old tender-hearted eyes, that they've been making fun of her for three weeks. She couldn't name specifics. She said she didn't remember. Maybe she didn't want to remember, I don't know. And maybe its not as big as she's saying. But the point is that she feels it, regardless of what actually is going on.

I guess I wouldn't really be a true mommy if that didn't make me cry just a little bit.

I can't run in and save her, of course. I can't fix it. I can only try and help her navigate it, hopefully in a better way than I did when I was her age. Some of these painful things are necessary, of course. Unfortunately, its often the only way we learn social cues of how to get along and how to fit in. And really, those are good skills, things I have to use everyday at my job and at my church and in my neighborhood and with my friends: find out whatever pieces of common ground you have with someone and connect.

And I think, the more that I've talked to Noelle, that its probably not as dire as it seems. Likely her friend has just decided she doesn't want to be friends anymore, and like I've told Noelle, as much as it hurts, she's allowed to do that. We can't make anyone be friends with us.

No, we can't, but I really wish sometimes that we could all grow the @(#*$& up.

Yeah, I meant that expletive. These kids are five, of course. Five. And they're allowed to act that way. But I still see this stuff at 15, 20, 30, heck, there are some 40 year olds I know that are more than wonderful to engage with individually, but when they're all in a room together the air shifts and they become that 'popular' clique again, one I, and really, most people, are definitely not part of.

But maybe, I don't want to be.

There, I said it. I don't want to be popular. No, wait, don't throw things at me. Don't say I'm lying. I mean it. Last year I ran into one of the girls who tormented me in elementary school, one of those 'popular' people who managed to extend enough grace to accept me by the end of high school, and thought, hey, we're 30, we can find some common ground here, right? And about two minutes into the conversation - all of which was positive, by the way - I was slammed with an alarming thought: you're not that interesting.

Not to rag on her - she's a lovely person, really. Especially now that she doesn't feel the need to make fun of me, or make me guess as to if I'm her friend this week or not. But also really, I don't care about what she cares about. I care about - gasp - dorky stuff. Music. Arts. Reading. Parenting. Learning. Writing. Hockey. The most interesting people I know are either doing crazy-ridiculous degrees at ivy league schools and really trying to integrate what they learn with how they think and act, or are super-passionate about raising healthy, grounded, fun kids, or who love to get up and dance when they hear their favorite song, or who, like me, have watched hockey their whole life and will jump up and scream at the refs like my dad used to. But really, what all of these interesting people, beneath all their dorky behaviour, have in common is that at some point in their life, they experienced deep pain.

Pain, I think, can connect us with others quicker and longer than anything else in the world. Sure, on the outside, we bond over happy things, shallow things: clothes and vacations and events and news and all sorts of things that, at least most of the time, don't dig too deep into who we are. And I'm not suggesting we embrace our inner masochists and only think about things that hurt. But in sharing that hurt with the right people - usually those honest enough to know they're just the same as us - we become a more united front. Stronger, somehow. Less afraid of what the social elite can do to us.

Hence - beware, another dorky confession - my deep love of Bones. That show - ridiculous and brilliant and at times wickedly funny, if you share our macabre, off-beat sense of humour, that is, is really all about the dorks ruling the world, and the cool guy realizing he'd much rather have Brainy Smurf than Smurfette, along the way, of course, teaching Brainy Smurf how to interact with people.

And that's really what matters, right? How to make others feel like they count? The most truly popular person I know is actually popular, I mean, by definition, she's just one of those people who draw others around her because she is so inclusive and affable and fun.

The other thing about her? She's not afraid to be who she is. Interesting, isn't it?

What most baffles me is that those who embrace who they really are - dork, cool, or both - become a little more interesting to the rest of the world, popular or not. Why is it that when we stop caring about something we become a little more able to attain it? If we're honest, we all know that deep down there's a part of us we're too ashamed to share, the part that makes us vulnerable and weird and broken. The part we try to apologize for.

What if, instead of apologizing, or trying to forget its there, we actually let that part out and - gasp - celebrated it?

David just told me about a junior high dance where he spent the entire night playing ping pong with two of the geekiest kids in school. Guess what? Those two guys (not to mention my pretty smart and capable husband!) have crazy successful jobs today, and you know what, they're also functional adults in the social world. Dorks really are ruling the world now, or haven't you noticed the iPhone revolution? It might make you cool to have one of those phones, but guess who made those phones? You guessed it. Ironic, hey? (Yes, I love my phone too).

Push me up against a locker
And hey, all I do is shake it off
I'll get you back when I'm your boss
I'm not thinking about you haters
Cause, hey, I could be a superstar
I'll see you when you wash my car

So yes, I'm a dork. Facing cancer has taught me that. But its also taught me that I LOVE being a dork. I mean, who cares that I sing at the top of my lungs to certain songs? Who cares that in another life I would have hoped to be a broadway dancer? Why does it matter that, as I'm about to turn 31, the dorky things I loved as an awkward seven year old - knitting, watching hockey, and writing stories - are the things I still deeply love today? DorkNation is sweepin' the nations, people. And I say, bring it on. Because really, when I look at those 'cool' kids today, and think of the 'uncool' choices I've made over the years, I think really, that I'm happier than they are. More at peace, somehow. And that is SO worth the torture of the first however many years of my life. Who am I kidding? Its worth the snickers and I-can't-believe-she-just-said-or-did-that looks I still get today. Its worth even the snorts of those of you reading this! ;)

You may think that I'm a zero
But hey, everyone you wanna be, probably started off like me
You may say that I'm a freakshow - I don't care
But hey, give it just a little time, I bet you're going to change your mind

Yes, as much as I want to teach my little girl the things that make her socially acceptable, I also hope I help her grab a whole lotta' confidence in the best and brightest parts of who she really is. I hope she'll be one of those who picks what she believes because she believes it, not because it seems the cool thing to do. I hope she becomes a strong character, a deep woman, a successful adult.

Which is why I hope she grows up with a healthy disrespect for the ridiculous criteria of the reigning class.

After all, as my husband says, we are the cool people.

So there. Come on, you guys. Embrace your inner dork. All the cool kids are doing it. =)