A dispatch from the front lines of the new French revolution

Farewell to Quebec

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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-02-20T10:48:55-05:00">February 20, 2024</time></div>

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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-02-15T12:16:41-05:00">February 15, 2024</time></div>

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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-02-05T14:55:18-05:00">February 5, 2024</time></div>

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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2023-07-13T08:00:42-04:00">July 13, 2023</time></div>

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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-05-14T13:48:26-04:00">May 14, 2024</time></div>

<h2 class="wp-block-post-title">An International Student’s Dilemma</h2>
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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-05-09T17:48:42-04:00">May 9, 2024</time></div>

<h2 class="wp-block-post-title">Why I Chose Not to Have Kids</h2>
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<div class="wp-block-post-date"><time datetime="2024-05-08T13:42:58-04:00">May 8, 2024</time></div>

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An International Student’s Dilemma

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In late 2022, I moved from New Delhi to Thunder Bay, Ontario, as an international student. I was 18 years old and alone for the first time in my life. I had just committed to spending the next three years studying at Lakehead University and living in a small, isolated city. Tuition would cost upward of $100,000—my father, an architect, and my mother, a makeup artist, pooled together much of our family’s savings to cover it. They believed it was a necessary sacrifice for me to pursue my education.

I’ve been passionate about video games since I was a kid. I love the creativity required to create complex animations and characters like Nathan Drake from the Uncharted adventure series. I’ve always dreamed of working at a gaming studio, but I had to leave India to give myself the best chance of accomplishing this goal. A degree from an Indian university is only respected in South Asia, but a Canadian degree opens doors anywhere in the world. Canada also has a reputation for welcoming international students with open arms, and the quality of life is better. Housing costs are comparable in both places, but salaries are much higher in Canada than in New Delhi, and the government even supports international students by offering work permits after graduation. Many major video game studios have offices in Canada too, like Ubisoft in Montreal and Rockstar Games in Toronto. Most international students go to urban centres, like Toronto and Vancouver, but I was drawn to the lower cost of living in Thunder Bay.

I was blown away when I first saw Lake Superior, with its pristine blue waters stretched out as far as I could see. I studied hard, befriended students in my residence and even discovered that Thunder Bay has a sizable Indian community. I skied with friends at Mount Baldy in the winter and kayaked on Lake Superior in the summer. I had a part-time job as a cook at a local casino, where I worked 20 hours a week for $18.50 an hour. After my first year living on campus, I moved out, renting a room for $600 a month in a townhome I share with three housemates. I still feel homesick and lonely sometimes, but I always remind myself how much my family had invested in sending me here.

That’s why I was unsettled when the Canadian government announced it was reducing the number of international students in Canada, with plans to issue 35 per cent fewer study permits over the next two years. In addition, spouses of international students in undergraduate and college programs will no longer get work permits. Since arriving in Canada, I’d seen news headlines and social media posts about Canadians blaming international students—and immigrants as a whole—for the housing crisis and skyrocketing costs of living. But I also feel the effects of those crises: I can barely afford to live in Thunder Bay, even when I always cook at home and take public transit. It’s also hard for international students to get jobs; I struggled to understand my casino co-workers at first because they spoke so fast and I wasn’t used to their accents. A few of them got frustrated with me, and the whole experience made me feel alienated.

I worry about other changes that might happen in the next two years: will the government reduce the number of years an international student can stay in Canada after graduation? Will work permit holders have a harder time applying for permanent residency? I fear that all the sacrifices my family and I made will go down the drain. I’m not graduating until 2026, but I’m already obsessively researching the job market and figuring out contingency plans in case I can’t stay in Canada.

International students contribute a lot, not just through our tuition fees, taxes and economic activity, but also by filling labour shortages. I’ve only scratched the surface in Thunder Bay, and I want to build a career and perhaps start a family here. But given how expensive and competitive it is—and considering the uncertain immigration landscape—I’ve been thinking a lot about leaving Canada once I graduate. Immigrating to the U.S. is also challenging, but if I get a job offer there, I would leave in a heartbeat.

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Why I Chose Not to Have Kids

When I played with Barbies growing up, I always imagined they were businesswomen wearing power suits and living in a big city. I was eight years old, and this was the only model I'd seen of a woman whose identity wasn’t wrapped up in motherhood. By the time I was 12, I dreamed of travelling, having adventures, owning pets. The common theme in these dreams was actually an absence: there were no kids. There was no epiphany moment. It happened slowly. Growing up, after babysitting other people’s kids, I'd come home and say, “I don’t want this.” The immediate response from people around me was that I’d change my mind.&nbsp;

I went on to study sociology and environmental studies at Acadia University in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. I spent four years thinking constantly and deeply about the state of the Earth. In 2006, during my third year, I saw the effects of climate change firsthand when I did an exchange program at the University of Western Sydney in Australia. In one of my environmental science classes, we took a field trip to the Pejar Dam in Goulburn, a major water catchment area for Sydney. For the first time in its 25-year history, it was practically empty. It can hold 9,000 megalitres of water, but it was down to just three.&nbsp;

We walked along the bottom of the dam where water should have been. It was cracked and dry and grey. There was a small puddle in the middle. A water tower loomed over the dam, <a href="https://www.gettyimages.dk/detail/news-photo/water-level-markings-are-seen-on-a-tower-inside-pejar-dam-news-photo/94618105">marked</a> with years of water-level lines. Residents in the area were using buckets of water to shower; hoses and sprinklers were banned. Conceptually and theoretically, I'd understood the climate crisis. But until then I never thought about water conservation. I’d also experienced my first wildfires in Australia. Walking around the university, I’d pass through billows of smoke in the air. I kept expecting class to be cancelled—it was strange walking through the smoky campus—but things was business as usual. These were huge eye openers.&nbsp;

Without the climate crisis, there’s a small chance I might have still had kids. With it, I know I won’t. It’s too daunting to bring a life into a world that’s warming. It’s not worth the risk. Whenever I make a decision, I draw up a mental pros and cons list. When it comes to having children, as I sift through different scenarios and necessary lifestyle changes I’d have to make, I always dead-end at one thing: the climate crisis. It was one thing I could never justify.&nbsp;

Nearly 15 years ago, when I was 24, I was working as a ski lift operator in Jasper. I was living the ski bum life—hiking, camping, skiing—when I met a guy and fell in love. Within the first month of dating, I told him, “I’m pretty sure I definitely don't want kids, so if that’s something you want, I’m not your person.” We're still together.

My family and friends support my decision. But I’ve heard it all before from others: You’ll change your mind. Who’s going to look after you when you’re old? How will you ever know real love? It’s surprising how many strangers feel they can weigh in on my life choices. At a wedding just a couple of years ago, a man I had just met couldn’t get over the fact that I chose not to get married. And when I told him I didn’t have kids, I basically blew his mind. He spent a lot of time trying to convince me, a person who he had just met, to become a parent.&nbsp;

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Now, I’m less offended when these conversations pop up. I’m 38, and while I’m increasingly the minority among my peers, I know I’m not alone. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/nov/09/more-people-not-having-children-due-to-climate-breakdown-fears-finds-research">New</a> research has found that more people are now basing their decisions not to have children on fears of climate breakdown. A 2023 study found that people with stronger concerns about climate breakdown had a desire for fewer children, or none at all. It’s such an individual thing. If it was somebody’s deep longing to have children, of course I feel sad for them. But my life is rich and meaningful and fulfilled, and I get that without having children.

The population is eight billion people. I don't need to add another one. I don’t want to throw kids into the gamble of an uncertain world. Displaced communities, years-long droughts, frequent wildfires—it’s hard to think about. And current projections say it’s not getting better. In fact, the planet is currently on track for global average temperatures to rise by up to nearly 3 degrees Celsius by the end of the century, according to a 2023 United Nations <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/earth-headed-for-nearly-three-degree-temperature-hike-well-above-paris-agreement-level-180983305/#:~:text=The%20Earth%20is%20on%20track,upon%20in%20the%20Paris%20Agreement.">report</a>. It’s not surprising to me.

I’ve also sought out communities online. In 2020, I joined a Facebook group for people who also made the conscious choice not to have kids. I subscribe to a weekly email newsletter called <a href="https://wearechildfree.com/newsletter/">We Are Childfree</a>, a storytelling project that features stories from people who have chosen not to have children. I’ve learned the social pressure to have children is even greater in other countries. I’ve read stories from people in the Middle East or Latin America who describe their cultures as particularly resistant to childfree choices. Some of them are ostracized by their families and communities. It’s heartbreaking, but it feels comforting to not feel so alone in the world with my choice. I like the notion of bringing more visibility to people who make the decision not to have kids.

I’m not a doomsday person who thinks the world is ending. Actually, I am optimistic that we can turn things around, and I made a lot of choices in my life banking on that hope.&nbsp;Over the years, I’ve worked odd jobs: a tramway guide in the Rockies, an organic farmer, a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant. Whatever money I stashed away I used to travel the world. Being able to get up and go with my backpack energized me. I did work exchange programs on farms in Europe and Australia. There, I learned from elders about living sustainably, and I realized how much I love working with my hands and growing plants out of the earth.

These days, I’m a potter in Florenceville-Bristol, N.B., about a 90-minute drive northwest of Fredericton. My partner and live in an off-grid home fitted with renewable solar panels and a compost toilet. I grow as much of my own food as I can and live lightly on the land. When I travel, I take a train rather than fly whenever possible. I’m no means an eco-saint, but I try to be conscious about my choices. I live on nearly 100 acres, and I put a lot of energy into propagating native trees. Part of my climate action is forestry restoration, slowly bringing back the traditional Acadian forest one tree at a time. I doubt that I’d personally be able to maintain this lifestyle if I had children.&nbsp;

Last year, I went to Italy for three months. I went all along the coast, from Sicily to Rome, and hiking in the Italian Alps. I wanted to learn from other potters and visited Vietri sul Mare in the province of Salerno, a city known for its ceramics. I worked on small homesteads and tried to learn Italian. I’m not sure these experiences would have been possible with children. It can be hard for some people to understand, but I’m just not interested in having a child. It doesn’t appeal to me. It would be a giant drain on my time and energy. 

Everyone always told me I would change my mind. That was in the back of my head as I travelled the world seeking new adventures and planted roots in my homestead. But it didn’t turn out to be the case. When people ask me if I have kids—which happens all the time—I used to just say no. Now, I make a point to say, "No, I’ve chosen not to." That’s my way of trying to normalize the fact that women can make this choice. Growing up, I never had older women in my life make that option clear to me. Having kids was the default setting. I like that young people who are on the fence can see more visibility and options. It’s okay not to have kids.

A Lakeside Vintage Wonderland

Mitzi Shields’ gig as a seller of vintage fashion and homewares began in 2022, when she spotted a pair of Prada pumps in a Vancouver thrift shop and purchased them for around $30. She posted them on Etsy and, only two days later, sold them for more than $300. (She originally thought she was getting scammed.) Since then, her Etsy store, called Vintage by Mitzi, has taken off. Now the only things she buys new are electronics, running shoes, carpets and underwear. “I don’t care to buy anything where there are a thousand available,” Shields says. “I like things that have been around the block.”

That’s clear from the smorgasbord of goods stuffed inside her cottage on Shuswap Lake in B.C. The lake, more than six hours northeast of Vancouver, has over a thousand kilometres of scenic shoreline and a mountain backdrop. She spends summers there with her partner, David Askew, who she met in 2019 when he approached her outside a post office. The couple belong to a grassroots-farming co-op and share an interest in books, politics and history. They play board games like Qwirkle and watch foreign films. “We’re not going to see The 40-Year-Old Virgin. We are old souls,” says Shields. Two years ago, they added a bubbly Portuguese water dog, Charly, to the mix.&nbsp;

Shields and Askew live most of the year in a cedar-clad home in Salmon Arm and spend summers in the cozy Shuswap Lake cabin about two hours away. The 1,500-square-foot, three-bedroom retreat is tucked among trees at the end of a winding driveway. They have a private beach, a sauna and a deck that faces the lake. A smaller porch at the back overlooks the forest where Shields is planting a lavender field. She originally wanted grapevines over her pergola to create a Tuscan atmosphere. “Luckily my neighbour talked some sense into me and told me it was guaranteed to attract bears,” she says.

Every room has gorgeous water views, and Shields made sure that the interior lives up to them. The pine kitchen, which she initially thought to be bland, looked lovely after she painted the surrounding walls a muted green. The couple also installed engineered-wood floors, a new chimney and a wood-burning stove from Spain. “The door had to be taken off the front of the house and the stove jacked into place. I’m telling you, that’s the last wood stove I’ll be buying,” says Shields, though she admits nothing compares to it for ambience.&nbsp;

Whenever Shields visits a new city, her first stop is the bookstore, then thrift stores to scope out mostly mid-mod homey treasures. (She mainly hunts for handmade pottery, dishes and glassware.) She hits the local shops twice a week, and her eclectic discoveries are displayed throughout the cottage: a pair of 1960s tubular chairs in the living room that were $10 apiece, collectable glass genie bottles from Empoli, Italy, in the guest bedroom. A recent addition is an exquisite, rare orange vase from 1967. “I google-imaged it and discovered it’s from the famous Finnish glass artist Nanny Still,” she says—and into her cart it went.

Shields also uses the cottage as her Etsy store showroom, so the space is always evolving. Currently, an African kuba shirt hangs over the stairway, and a Don Freedman tapestry of a trio of tulips is over the couple’s bed. Brass candlesticks brighten the hearth, and lots of bulbous 1960s glazed lamps ooze nostalgia.

These days the pair read books while splayed on their fudge-brown velvet sofa. “It’s ugly but comfortable,” says Shields. She is also a fervent cook and shares her dishes on her Instagram page @mealswithmitzi. With Charly in tow, the pair hike, kayak, paddle-board and literally stop to smell Shields’ white roses. Bears be damned: she’s even thrown in a few raspberry bushes.&nbsp;The couple take road trips in Canada and the States and sometimes spend a month in Spain and France, like they did last June. “Oh, the things you spot. I could have filled a ship in Spain.” 

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Introducing the 2024 3M National Teaching Fellowship Award Winners

The 3M National Teaching Fellowship was created in 1986 by the Society for Teaching and Learning in Higher Education (STLHE) to recognize exceptional teachers in post-secondary education. Every year, the fellowship celebrates 10 university and college educators who show leadership in enhancing post-secondary education and a sustained dedication to undergraduate education. Winners become lifetime members of the society, a national organization working to advance teaching and learning in higher education.

As the program’s media sponsor since 2006,&nbsp;Maclean’s&nbsp;is pleased to announce the 2024 Fellows. Below, STLHE’s selection committee explains why these 10 professors are being recognized this year.

Dr. Erin Austen, St. Francis Xavier University

Chair and Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, St. Francis Xavier University

Dr. Erin Austen approaches teaching with compassion and kindness to create the conditions all participants need to flourish. Dr. Austen recognizes the known and unknown challenges students face and designs her classes accordingly. Examples of her efforts range from re-designing the campus outdoors to conducting accessibility audits using first-voice. Further, she willingly shares the resources she creates with her colleagues at St. Francis Xavier (StFX) and beyond. Students shared how they felt heard, mentored, and supported.&nbsp; In her classes, Dr. Austen also legitimizes, empowers, and celebrates the perspectives and approaches of other cultures within psychology and helps students see real-world relevance of what they are learning through course projects.&nbsp;&nbsp;

As an educational leader, Dr. Austen led the charge to bring a Teaching and Learning Centre to StFX. Regarding the opportunities Dr. Austen initiated on campus, a colleague enthused, “She transformed the way teaching and learning is supported and celebrated at StFX.”&nbsp;

In support of the nomination, her colleagues wrote: “We can say in our five years of collaborating with Dr. Austen that she is one of the most unsung and yet highest impact heroes of teaching and learning at her university and across Atlantic Canada.” Her impressive expertise, knowledge, and mastery of multiple and complex fields shine as a beacon of creativity and innovation. It is evident from the abundance of work Dr. Austen tirelessly engages in, her thoughtful planning, and her ability to listen and respond as needed, that she is a caring educator who keeps students at the centre of her planning and actions.&nbsp;

Dr. Loleen Berdahl, University of Saskatchewan

Professor, Political Studies Department, Executive Director, Johnson Shoyama Graduate School of Public Policy, University of Saskatchewan

Dr. Loleen Berdahl is a professor of political studies and the executive director of the Johnson Shoyama Graduate School of Public Policy at the University of Saskatchewan. Dr. Berdahl's work emanates from a deeply empathetic philosophy: to meet students where they are and guide them towards their potential. Her transformative pedagogy is not confined to the classroom; it serves as a compass for educators and policymakers alike.

Informed by a decade of experience working in a public policy think tank, Dr. Berdahl fosters connections between academia, personal growth, and societal betterment. By uniquely blending content knowledge with life-changing skill development, she achieves results that are academically enriching and personally transformative. The result is a vibrant, student-centred learning ecosystem that former students say has prepared them for success in diverse fields. A student notes, “Her pedagogical approach gives students skills and competencies that benefit them beyond the classroom…the skills my peers and I developed were linked to our future career development.”

Beyond her university, Dr. Berdahl facilitates conversations about higher education. She regularly contributes teaching and learning content to a nationally read publication and to other media outlets. Her efforts have led to educational reforms across North America. Her outreach targets educators from diverse backgrounds, offering practical teaching strategies.&nbsp;

Above all, Dr. Berdahl is committed to transformative teaching that prepares students to address real-world challenges. She's not just an educator; she's an agent of change, inspiring students and colleagues to realize their potential in shaping the future.

Dr. Nicole Campbell, Western University

Associate Professor, Physiology and Pharmacology, Schulich School of Medicine &amp; Dentistry, Western University

Dr. Nicole Campbell’s efforts to humanize post-secondary education through a pedagogy of compassion, belonging and well-being transcend her classroom.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Dr. Campbell's educational leadership philosophy speaks of her passion for collaboration and commitment to mentor, guide, and support others. A visionary leader, she proposed a new undergraduate interdisciplinary medical sciences course-based master’s program and has played a critical role in its ongoing success, including as the program director. In addition, she played a pivotal role in co-organizing the Western Conference on Science Education in 2019, 2021, and 2023, which convened educators from across North America. One of her most impactful leadership achievements was the creation of “Uncovering the Hidden Curriculum,” a project she led to help educators to support students within and beyond education, which recently garnered international recognition. Dr. Campbell led a cross-sector, cross-institution team to create a website of accessible resources that educators can embed in their courses to support student skill development.

In the classroom, Dr. Campbell is celebrated for her emphasis on relationship-building, student mental health, and equitable learning environments. Her dedication to fostering an inclusive and engaging learning experience is evident in student and peer testimonials, praising her passion and commitment. She finds creative and innovative ways to engage and assess students by simulating real-world challenges such as working effectively with others and evidence-based decision-making.&nbsp;

Dr. Campbell generously shares her innovations and approaches with other educators and inspires them to experiment with transformative pedagogies in the hope that they will positively impact students around the globe.

Dr. Serge Chalhoub, University of Calgary

Associate Professor, Faculty of Veterinary Medicine, University of Calgary

Dr. Serge Chalhoub grounds his educational leadership philosophy in creating impactful and safe learning opportunities, working in teams, modeling courage, and promoting enthusiasm and practicality. His educational innovation engages decolonization and community-based learning, with initiatives such as the Calgary Urban Project Society, which provides free medical care for the pets of unhoused individuals or others living with poverty, and clinical rotations at the Alberta Animal Rescue Society Crew and the Stoney Nakoda First Nations near Calgary. These initiatives have benefited many underserved groups while bringing students into real-world situations to significantly augment their learning. Broadening student understanding of issues of equity, diversity, and inclusion, Dr. Chalhoub’s community-based initiatives also show them practical and achievable ways to help address the issues. “Education at every veterinary school,” a colleague states, “would be enhanced by the adoption of similar initiatives.”

Dr. Chalhoub is a talented teacher, dedicated to integrative and immersive learning, vigorously promoting collaborative teaching and learning, and championing under-taught communities. He aims for students to develop their clinical reasoning skills in supportive learning environments, knowing they learn best when they feel safe to challenge themselves and feel cared for as individuals. “He ensured that we were all involved,” a student writes. Dr. Chalhoub’s passion for collaborative teaching and learning and community outreach has fuelled curriculum reform, and his service work on institutional, national, and international committees and conferences has facilitated professional development of his academic and veterinary colleagues, giving life to his educational philosophy of balancing enthusiasm and practicality, vision and day-to-day realities.

Dr. Cari Din, University of Calgary

Associate Professor (Teaching), Faculty of Kinesiology, University of Calgary

Dr. Cari Din is an exceptional educational leader, mentor, and coach who teaches leadership through potent experiential learning in the classroom and the community. As one former student commented, “she is not just shaping students to become better leaders of tomorrow but shaping us to become holistic well-rounded individuals of society who understand our privilege and role in the world.”&nbsp;

A medal-winning Olympic athlete early in her life, Dr. Din understands the power of collaborative teamwork and psychological safety to “empower individuals to think, stretch their perspective, create, and lead.” She models and teaches reflective-learning practices with undergraduates and graduate students, and mentors colleagues across University of Calgary and beyond.&nbsp;

Dr. Din is recognized for overhauling a required exercise physiology lab course for kinesiology undergraduates, generating rich, meaningful learning in the lab. This initiative, along with her deep belief that reflection supercharges learning, has transformed the teaching culture in the Faculty of Kinesiology and is transforming lab courses across the health disciplines.&nbsp;

During her Fellowship at the Canadian Centre for Advanced Leadership, Cari developed new leadership courses and designed the highly effective curriculum for the innovative BMO Mentorship Program. Her maxim is that “learning is done by students—not to them.” She thus bolsters student agency and encourages critical thinking through deep learning experiences. Her students often mention that being in her classes can feel like being on her team. Like the most impactful coaches, Dr. Din challenges her students, while supporting and celebrating their achievements.

Dr. Samanti Kulatilake, Mount Royal University

Associate Professor, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Mount Royal University

Dr. Samanti Kulatilake has an exceptional ability to bring people together in diverse learning contexts. Her educational philosophy explores practices of global decolonization and democratization of knowledge, creating lasting impact for students, the campus, and the field of anthropology. Recognized locally and internationally for her adaptive and inclusive educational leadership practices, she empowers learners and colleagues through experiential learning.&nbsp;

A biological anthropologist studying human evolution and migration, Dr. Kulatilake encourages students to become global citizens and active participants in a range of North-South and East-West interactions. Her field school, distinctly collaborative and relational in design, immerses learners in contexts where challenges become opportunities for understanding and developing intercultural competencies. As noted by a colleague, Kulatilake’s core values and pedagogical practices “not only constitute teaching excellence but do so because they reflect a decolonial and Global South perspective that values community over individualism.”&nbsp;

Dr. Kulatilake’s development of a student peer-mentor program and opportunities for paid research assistant positions enact her core values of collaboration, connection, and care. As a teacher, she travels alongside her students, both literally for the Sri Lankan field school and in efforts to decolonize Western perspectives in education. A champion of Open Access Resources (OERs) for more inclusive and accessible teaching and learning, she has also developed OERs, a peer-reviewed journal, and a biological anthropology e-textbook. These examples underscore her commitment to the democratization of knowledge and her influence in shaping accessible education.&nbsp;

Dr Kulatilake’s humility and generosity towards her students and colleagues serve as an inspiration for all of us.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Dr. Heather Lawford, Bishop's University

Professor, Canada Research Chair in Youth Development, Psychology Department, Bishop's University

A beloved and transformative educator, Dr. Heather Lawford, Canada Research Chair in Youth Development, is a leading thinker in generativity, the human capacity to positively benefit society. She and her students strive to understand how this capacity develops in youth and how to better empower youth’s capacity to create lasting benefit.&nbsp;

Dr. Lawford’s passion for generativity is apparent in everything she does. She views her students as partners and is continually empowering them to make an impact in the wider community. For example, undergraduate students in her research lab help make all choices, from annual research directions to the lab decor.&nbsp;

With colleagues across campus, Dr. Lawford created the Knowledge Mobilization Certificate to give senior students the opportunity to meaningfully bring research findings to the attention of community decision makers.&nbsp;

A longstanding supporter of organizations like the Students Commission of Canada and the annual #CanadaWeWant conference, Dr. Lawford encourages her students to take on leadership roles with youth communities across Canada. Through these initiatives she partners with young people and works in interdisciplinary spaces to create and share new knowledge with diverse stakeholders. As one of her former students says, “Through her student-centred focus, she puts world-wide and impactful research projects in the hands of students and opens opportunities for students beyond the walls of the university.”&nbsp;&nbsp;

Continually breaking down barriers, she recently co-created a course, Lessons from the Marvel Universe, in which foundational principles and tools can help students unlock superhero powers and enact change, creating good in society—creating lasting learning.

Dr. Richelle Monaghan, Wilfrid Laurier University

Professor, Health Studies and Biology, Vice-Dean, Faculty of Science, Wilfrid Laurier University

Dr. Richelle Monaghan’s exceptional contributions to higher education include her unwavering dedication to building resilience, creating hope, and making science accessible and welcoming for all.&nbsp;

Dr. Monaghan employs an extraordinary array of approaches and tools to bring science to students, transforming science education into something tactile and life-relevant while bringing joy into the learning process. She employs creative and innovative activities in her classroom, like escape box exercises, the “cranial nerve chicken dance,” and Snapchat filters to learn the muscles of facial expression.&nbsp;

She has undertaken a career-long vow to advance accessibility, refusing to accept traditional barriers to science, and fashioning new entry points to science education for aspiring science students. As one of her students wrote in her nomination package: “Her culture change in science education should be recognized, appreciated, and replicated.”&nbsp;

Dr. Monaghan is an educational leader at Laurier and beyond, and her leadership approach is founded on guiding, empowering, and serving others. She co-founded Laurier’s Centre for Leading Research in Education and has taken her innovative activities to universities in the United States to share with colleagues. She facilitates connections and fosters a sense of community among students, colleagues, and the community.&nbsp;She motivates colleagues to re-imagine the kind of educators they can be, with the same generosity of spirit, willingness to innovate, and refusal to accept long-standing barriers.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Dr. Monaghan is a beacon of hope, innovation, and accessibility across the academic landscape, and a powerful catalyst for positive change.&nbsp;

Dr. Libby (Elizabeth) Osgood, University of Prince Edward Island

Associate Professor, Faculty of Sustainable Design Engineering, University of Prince Edward Island

Dr. Libby (Elizabeth) Osgood is a bright light at University of Prince Edward Island (UPEI). Hers is a truly integrated academic life, with a fascinating path: from aerospace engineer to religious sister and award-winning university teacher. This journey transformed her approach in the classroom: rather than teaching engineering, she now focuses on teaching students.&nbsp;

One of the first faculty members in the new Faculty of Sustainable Design Engineering at UPEI, Dr. Osgood has been a leader in the design of the program as well as in the founding and student-led running of its Engineering Success Centre, striving to support engineering students and mentor student leaders. Her approach to leadership is to lead beside and then step aside to let other people’s lights shine, underpinned by, in the words of a colleague, “Her hope that engineering and engineering education can make the world better.”

Dr. Osgood’s teaching practice is based on five “Ps”: passionate, proactive, present, philanthropic, and prepared. Heavily engaged with STEM and STEAM outreach and international humanitarian engineering, she has accompanied her students to projects in Kenya and Honduras. Her innovative classroom approaches to learning electronics circuitry have been adopted by instructors across North America and shared in peer-reviewed education journals. A student writes that Dr. Osgood’s “inquiry-based questions leave the classroom puzzled, yet yearning to know more.”&nbsp;&nbsp;

Dr. Osgood chooses to be “hope-filled and to effect change through mentorship, so students can realize that they, too, are light themselves, and as a society, we are better.”

Dr. Rosemary Reilly, Concordia University

Chair and Professor, Department of Applied Human Sciences, Concordia University

Dr. Rosemary Reilly’s limitless energy, vision, and perseverance are a sample of the key qualities that make her an outstanding teacher and successful visionary leader.&nbsp;

Dr. Reilly’s philosophy of educational leadership is rooted in her desire to be a leader who prioritizes serving the greater good. By putting her students and fellow professors first, she focuses primarily on the growth and well-being of people and many diverse communities. Her dossier is filled with evidence of her commitment to serving students by improving curriculum to increase student learning, and to serving colleagues through workshops and mentorship for faculty and teaching assistants.

Dr. Reilly is a reflective practitioner who experiments with non-traditional pedagogies using performance, collective arts, and other artistic tools to reach learning objectives and deepen student learning. Students remark that she has nurtured their growth and self-discovery, allowing them to learn and teach themselves. Students attest to Dr. Reilly’s strong commitment to decolonizing teaching and providing an equitable and inclusive learning environment, noting that, “Dr. Reilly was steadfast in creating an inclusive and supportive space for all students, particularly for those who identify as queer, students of colour, and those with disabilities.” Her syllabi incorporate decolonial voices and perspectives.&nbsp;

Recognized as an inspiration to fellow faculty members, her colleagues emphasize that “She has played a central role in creating and sharing pedagogical knowledge with faculty, students, and staff through workshops, committee memberships, and serving as Concordia’s first teaching fellow.”&nbsp;

Dr. Reilly is a valued teacher, visionary, and scholar who embodies excellence in teaching, leadership, and innovation.&nbsp;

My Trans Awakening—at Age 66

I was 10 years old the first time I came out as transgender. It was 1964, and I told my parents that I was a girl. They didn’t know how to react. Back then, the concept of “transgender” wasn't mainstream, and transsexuality—as it was known then—was considered a perversion and a sexual deviation. My father’s reaction was to continue shaming me for who I was: a gentle child who cried easily. So I never brought it up with them again. I learned how to walk like a boy, talk like a boy, even think like a boy. I wasn’t very good at it when I was younger, but I got better as the years went by.

In my early 20s, I moved from Vancouver to Calgary, where I worked in IT. I met my first wife in 1977, and we eventually had three sons together. We got divorced when they were still kids, so I was a single parent for many years before meeting my second wife. After my sons and my stepdaughter moved out, my wife and I drifted from small town to small town in southern Alberta. By 2017, I had retired, and the two of us had ended up in Strathmore, a community 40 minutes east of Calgary.&nbsp;

All those years, I never dared look up the word “transgender” online. I was afraid that someone would find it in my search history and that I’d be outed. I never believed it would be possible to come out. But as life went on and I could start to see the end of the road, I wondered whether I could actually be the person I truly am. I imagined myself on my deathbed, still in the closet, thinking I’d never lived. That was heartbreaking.

In the spring of 2021, I was lonely and depressed. My world revolved around my wife: she’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis shortly after we got married, and I’d been focused on helping her regain her health. I was happy to support her; it gave me purpose and served as a welcome distraction. I spent my days playing guitar alone in my basement—quietly, so that no one could hear me. I lived every bit like a man: I had a beard and short-cropped hair, and I was into weightlifting. I was so deep in the closet that I’d never worn makeup or even tried on women’s clothing in private. Then, one day, I typed “transgender” into Facebook’s search bar. I was shocked to find that there were so many Facebook groups for trans people online; some had over 100,000 members. People talked about going on hormone replacement therapy, or HRT; getting gender-affirming surgery; and coming out to their families. I was blown away. I had no idea these things were possible.

As soon as I found out that so many trans people were out of the closet, I realized I couldn’t stay in there anymore. At the age of 66, I came out to my wife. We’d been married for about 18 years, and she had no idea that I was trans—that’s how well I’d hidden it. The news was the start of a slow-motion divorce. But for me, telling her the truth lifted a weight off my shoulders. It took tremendous energy to spend my whole life acting. The day I came out to her, it was like the sun shone for the first time.

Four days later, I posted in one of the trans Facebook groups that I’d joined. I wrote about how happy I was to be out and put up a photo of myself. The post got over 500 likes. Suddenly, trans people from across the world were telling me about their own coming-out experiences. It meant a lot to know that so many people were happy for me.&nbsp;

A few months later, I came out to my sons and my stepdaughter. They didn’t see it coming, but they were very supportive. My grandkids, in particular, have been great. They used to call me “Grandpa,” and one day I said to them, “I’d like you to call me Grandy now.” Just like that, they switched over without missing a beat. By then, my wife had also accepted that she couldn’t change my transness, and she decided to help me move forward. She gave me advice on painting my nails, adopting a skincare routine and styling my clothes. I appreciated her help.

I started seeing a therapist, who told me about Skipping Stone, a non-profit organization based in Calgary that supports trans people across Alberta and organizes Zoom peer-support groups. I joined one for transfeminine people over the age of 50. Those first meetings were a shock, because I’d never met a trans person before. There was so much to process. Most of the members had been out for years, and they had all the answers to my questions. We talked about how to access hormone-replacement therapy, how to do your hair and makeup, and how to present yourself in a feminine way. Suddenly, I had trans friends.

Within about six months of my coming out, my wife and I finalized our divorce. We sold our house in Strathmore and moved into separate apartments in Calgary. After we split, I felt much more free to express my gender identity. I’d put on a blouse, a skirt, jewellery and makeup, and I’d dance around the living room in a way I’d never moved before—like a girl. It filled me with joy. I also changed my name and the gender marker on my ID and met as many people as I could through Stepping Stone.&nbsp;

In September of 2022, I attended a picnic with the Zoom group. We met in the parking lot, all of us dressed up for a day at the park. There were a few people standing near us who weren’t part of our group. The funny thing was, none of them paid much attention to us. At that moment, we were just like everyone else. That was a powerful lesson—it inspired us to get together more often, and I realized we could be exactly who we were in public, and we probably wouldn’t get stares or nasty comments. We started going out for lunch, chatting about our transitions and our lives. We could be ourselves with each other.

A friend had mentioned Rainbow Elders Calgary, a volunteer-run organization that supports local LGBTQ+ seniors. I started following the group on social media, and eventually, one of their upcoming events caught my eye: another picnic in the park. It was a spectacular spring day, and the park was full of families enjoying the sun. I spotted a Pride flag in the air and found my way to a small group of seniors. We started chatting right away. Some people tossed a baseball around, while others played ring toss. I loved the whole idea that we were here, queer and not going away. Queer people, especially trans people of my generation, have done a lot of hiding in our lives. It was nice to find a group that was out and about in the community.

Since the picnic, my involvement with Rainbow Elders has become a focus of my life. The group is amazingly inclusive. There are lesbians, gay men, trans people—pretty much the whole rainbow. Rainbow Elders marches in LGBTQ+ protests and advocates for queer seniors in care homes by putting together seminars for staff and residents. It also organizes monthly social events with activities like swimming and dancing and holds meetings where we take turns sharing our stories. I love the opportunity to speak with people my age who have similar experiences.

Recently, I led a bird-watching event at the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary in the heart of the city. I invited a friend of mine who brought a few other younger trans men with him, plus a group of Rainbow Elders. It was a cold and blustery day, but we saw some great birds and shared good conversation. Halfway through the event, one of the young men told me that he hadn’t left his apartment much, and he was thrilled to be outside, getting sunshine and fresh air. He said it meant a lot to be talking to real people, rather than texting or speaking on Zoom. Afterwards, we went for brunch at a coffee shop. The friend I’d invited later told me that the sandwich he ate there was the first decent meal he’d had in a long time. It was just a bird-watching event, but it helped people in ways I didn’t expect.

After coming out, you begin to change in quite a big way. Everything can shift: who your friends are, who you can partner with, how society sees you. Many Rainbow Elders came out later in life too, and they understand what it’s like to have played the role of another gender for decades, and the difficulty of trying to shake that. In our generation, there are so many people who have gone through trauma, especially at the hands of our postwar parents and a bigoted society. Each Rainbow Elder has their own story, but we all share a similar vulnerability.

One of the group’s goals is to support queer youth in the city. So we often visit LGBTQ+ organizations in local schools and colleges to talk to—and more importantly, to listen to—the folks there. I recently met with a LGBTQ+ student group at Mount Royal University. It was beautiful to see so many young people out and proud. Our stories as seniors are radically different from what youth are going through now. We talk to young people about losing many queer and trans people of older generations to the AIDS epidemic. And they teach us about different gender paradigms, like the term “non-binary,” which wasn’t a common label in my generation. Kids are coming out sooner—in elementary school, high school, university. A lot of them have supportive parents, which was just about unheard-of for my generation. But in some ways, it’s also harder for young people to come out. When I came out at 66, I was financially independent with kids and grandkids. Many young people don’t have those financial and social supports. In Alberta, trans youth are also grappling with planned provincial policy changes that would limit their access to gender-affirming health care and mandate parental consent if students want to change their name or pronouns at school. I see queer and trans kids as trailblazers, and I’m glad that we as Rainbow Elders are working to support them, listen to their concerns and advocate against the government’s anti-trans policies.

I’ve now been out for three years, and at this point, my transition is largely complete. I’m profoundly happier than I was before I came out. I used to be a quiet person who rarely smiled and barely had friends. Now, I wake up every day looking forward to what’s ahead. I’ve become a social butterfly: I want to go and find people every day, and I’m always looking for the next Rainbow Elders event to attend. I’m finally the person I always was.

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Naheed Nenshi Loves the Drama

The moment Naheed Nenshi entered the Alberta NDP leadership race this past March, he was quickly named the candidate to beat—and the one who could beat Premier Danielle Smith. It didn’t matter that the next provincial election was three years away. This was the three-term mayor who comforted Calgarians during the devastating 2013 floods; who galvanized citizens, red and blue, with his overwhelmingly purple wardrobe; and who made international headlines for his social-media savvy. (One memorable meme: “Keep Calm and Nenshi On.”)&nbsp;

Still, it’s going to take more than name recognition, violet socks and his trademark silver tongue to nab Nenshi the party’s top spot and take down the reigning UCP, a regime he’s called immoral and dangerous due to its climate change flip-floppery and controversial transgender youth policies. To many Albertans, Nenshi is the underdog. A Harvard-educated business prof with little rural appeal. A bandwagon-jumper who only became an NDP member in January. To the UCP, he’s a delightfully easy target. It’ll be a fight to win the West, but one everyone is looking forward to—Nenshi included.

So, after 11 years in the mayor’s office, you left politics altogether to make room for new blood. And here you are again! I love Calgary, but I’m a Gen Xer, so I basically spent my life waiting for boomers to retire. We were coming out of the dark early stages of the pandemic and I thought, Here’s an opportunity for others to make their mark. After I left office, I worked hard to craft an interesting life for myself, making a lot of money doing public speaking, political commentary and consulting. But I felt like I wasn’t in “the room where it happens,” as they say in Hamilton. Just adjacent to the room where it happens.

What drew you back into the fray? When I looked around and saw how awful politics had become at all levels, across parties, I thought: Wow, things are so bad. I’m glad I’m out, and Wow, things are so bad. I wonder if I could help fix them. I worked with six premiers from three different political parties in the time I was mayor; you disagree on policy, but you’re all kind of moving in the same direction, most of the time. I’ve never seen an Alberta government like the UCP’s. It’s so fundamentally uninterested in governing.

Which balls are they dropping, in your view? For a couple of decades, this group has been seeking power—now, they’re the dogs who caught the car. Still, every decision they make appears to be about consolidating their power. Teachers have complained to me about class sizes, yet the government is focused on its ideologically motivated elementary curriculum. The premier says she wants to bring us to net zero by 2050, but says no to every action that’ll get us there. In some places in southern Alberta, on the weekends, people have to drive past many closed ERs to find one that’s open.&nbsp;

For years, you wore purple to signal a blend of red and blue ideologies. Now, you’re sporting more orange. How are you planning to sell yourself as the NDP guy when you weren’t even a member until this year?&nbsp; It’s extremely difficult to find ties and socks that are orange and purple. But enough people said to me, “Look, you have an incredibly limited set of skills, but one of the things you’re good at is bringing people together for a common cause.” I talked to forever-NDP supporters and non-NDP voters, and everyone wanted the same things: strong public services, no punching down on vulnerable people, and not to be bystanders to climate change. The NDP is a team that matches my values. I don’t believe in traditional left-wing, right-wing scales; I believe in good policy.&nbsp;

You’ve said the N in NDP doesn’t stand for “Naheed.” How do you respond to those who say, “He’s trying to make the party the Nenshi show”? That this is all an ego play? Folks said that when I was mayor, too. I’m aware that I’m a pretty big guy who takes up a lot of oxygen. I get my big clown feet over things. But when you’re the mayor, you have no caucus. During my years on council, the majority of what we did pass did so unanimously. I get that inviting new people into a party feels threatening for some, but you can’t defeat this government without doing that. If I can be the conduit, I’m not going to say no.

Do you have any diva-ish habits? An elaborate Starbucks order, perhaps? I have probably a couple hundred ties and 96 pairs of shoes—more purple sneakers than you can imagine. I’m also extraordinarily cheap, so every one of those things was bought on sale. I will say I do have huge Papa Bear tendencies. If you go after my people? I’m ferocious. I rarely cuss, though, which is very weird in politics.

That is weird. Especially when you have so many reasons to right now. There was one time when the previous UCP government did a particularly stupid thing: taking away local control over ambulance dispatch, which I knew would cost lives. I may have said, “Those f-ers.”

This seems like a good time to bring up Danielle Smith. The provincial election is years away, but people are already anticipating a clash of the titans. You’re seen as the only NDP leadership candidate who has a hope in hell of beating her—or persuading right-leaning people to switch teams. Is subduing Smith part of your reason for running? People ask if this run is personal. Not really, no. I’ve known her for 30 years, but we were never enemies. It’s not like she’s my white whale. But I will say, Danielle Smith the premier is not the person I knew.

How has she changed? At the University of Calgary, she was always a great communicator, always popular. She was president of the campus PC party when the Reform Party was in its ascendance. Later, she developed more of a right-wing persona, which is fine; we grow and change. But about a year ago, I was speaking at Henry Wise Wood High School in Calgary, and a non-binary student asked me a heartbreaking question: “Do I need to leave the province?” I looked them in the eye and said, “I’ve known Danielle Smith forever. There are a lot of things we disagree on, but I know she’s not a hater. She’s not going to come after you and your friends.” Now, a year later, I hate that I lied to that kid. She’s not the person I grew up with—or maybe I was fooled back then.

Shared history gives you an advantage. You’d said you have a good sense of how to get under Smith’s skin, which is hilariously petty of you. I was being a little bit petty. I’m no saint! The funny thing is that saying I know how to get under her skin totally got under her skin.&nbsp;

You seem to be getting under a lot of people’s skins.&nbsp; At the beginning of all this, conservative strategists wrote op-eds saying they loved that I was running for leader because they could eventually beat me. I’m not above taking a little bit of pleasure in how off-kilter they are. If I didn’t love the cut-and-thrust of politics, it would be a very, very bad choice to do this run.&nbsp;

You are known for speaking off-the-cuff sometimes. Does your mouth get you into trouble more than it benefits you?&nbsp; During my time in the mayor’s office, there were two or three minor scandals—the worst of which was when I called Travis Kalanick, then CEO of Uber, an uncharacteristically mean word. (Later, there was a Netflix series on why he was, in fact, a jerk, so I felt vindicated.) On the small occasions when my mouth goes too far, you know, that’s me. Warts and all. I use $10 words, too. I grew up in a family that was quite poor, and we didn’t have money for sports, so the only after-school activity I could do was debate team. My family had political discussions every night at the dinner table.

Some doubt your ability to connect with rural Albertans—like, How could a Harvard-educated professor possibly relate? Didn’t you grow up working class? Working class when we were working, yeah.&nbsp;

I read that your elementary school in Red Deer had a rodeo. Did you take part? I went! I lacked a horse, so the only event I was eligible for was the greased pig race, where you grease a pig and try to catch it. I found it a bit undignified—particularly for the pig. When I became mayor, my sister’s friend found a photo of me at the River Glen Rodeo, dressed up in what an immigrant family thought a cowboy would look like. I don’t claim that those years in Red Deer gave me deep insights into how people in rural Alberta think, but it really comes down to a little bit of empathy.&nbsp;

I visited Alberta for the first time last summer. It’s very beautiful and very big—big hats, big sky, Big Oil. That trip also made me understand why it’s seen as an Americanized oasis in the Canadian West. And not just because you have Chili’s. Only a few.&nbsp;

There were some Confederate flags and MAGA hats—not everywhere or on everyone, but it was jarring to see physical evidence of how right-wing American ideology has bled north. Why do you think some Albertans have found kinship in it?&nbsp; It’s not a MAGA ideology; it’s a trans-national universal right-wing ideology. It’s fed by misinformation, but it’s rooted in people’s real anxieties about a world that’s changing fast. As human beings, we’re hard-wired to defend what we’ve got. This isn’t about Alberta being more American than anywhere else in Canada; you’ll find that sentiment just as much in Peterborough, Ontario, as you will here.&nbsp;

But how do you deal with it there? We have a couple of choices: we can try to go back to a past that never existed. (Take Back Alberta for whom?) The other response is much scarier: to throw open our arms to new and better ideas. A lot of folks in my profession are using fear in the short-term pursuit of power. The problem is, once you let the monster out of the closet, it’s very hard to control it. Toward the end of Jason Kenney’s tenure, he talked about how the forces of anger and intolerance had taken over. My response was that I don’t think the arsonist is allowed to call the fire department.&nbsp;

That adversarial “Alberta versus” tone is alive and well thanks to the UCP. Right now, it’s Alberta vs. Trudeau, Alberta vs. the carbon tax. How would you approach things differently? My campaign slogan is “For Alberta. For all of us,” right? Half of the people who’ve signed up to the campaign say, “This is the first time a politician has told me to be for something.” For the longest time, we’ve been trained to be against: against Ottawa, against environmentalists, against drag queens. Albertans are tired of fighting.

You were once known for your flashy campaigning style, like Operation Purple Dawn, when you tagged Calgary with platform slogans in chalk on election eve. Yes. The chalk. We didn’t know until later that it wasn’t entirely in bylaw compliance. Luckily, it rained the next day.

Do you see yourself playing it more low-key this time around? You’re 52 now. I thought I did. I had an argument with our staffers the day after we launched, because they wanted to have a volunteer training session the next day. I said, “Guys, you can’t invite people on a Monday night and have an event on Tuesday. Nobody’s gonna come.” They convinced me to do it, and 500 people showed up. To me, that’s the exciting guerrilla stuff.&nbsp;

Are you skimming any political memoirs on the road—for inspiration? They’ve never been my thing—I like to live in the present—but people are always giving me great examples. I got one last night, after a speech in which I compared Danielle Smith to King Canute, trying to hold back the waves. A guy came up to me and said David Lange, the former premier of New Zealand, made the exact same reference before he swept to victory over a conservative government!

Spooky! I was like, That’s a good sign. I have to find out more about that guy!

You once said that, if you had a time machine, the one thing you’d go back and change from your mayoral tenure was your failed Winter Olympics bid. Will you be watching the Games in a month’s time, or just grumbling? It’s the Summer Olympics, so I can’t feel salty; I’ll feel very salty during the 2026 Winter Games in Milan. Because I don’t have, you know, children or hobbies, I like to go see international sport competitions live. I’ve seen the men’s and women’s World Cups! If I weren’t running for leader, I would be in Paris with my friends. I’m trying to figure out: even if I am the leader, can I take a little vacation?

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JUNE 2024_BIG IDEA_REFUGEE RECEPTION CENTRES_ILLUSTRATION BY PETE RYAN

The Case For Refugee Reception Centres

In 1990, I was living with my family in El Salvador, against the backdrop of the civil war. Back then, you’d get in trouble just for talking about human rights, and my husband, Francisco, was a lawyer who dealt with political detainees. I worked with children with disabilities. The army saw both of us as threats and, after soldiers came to our house looking for our kids, we knew we had to leave. I was five months pregnant with our third child when we boarded a plane to Toronto.&nbsp;

At the time, Canada had a special permit set up for Salvadoran refugees, similar to the current emergency temporary residence authorization for Ukrainians. Our family was guaranteed all kinds of government assistance: health coverage, work permits and a year’s worth of monthly stipends for rent and food. The night we arrived at our settlement centre— a now-shuttered hotel on Jarvis Street in Toronto—there was someone to help us access health cards and English classes. The four of us were huddled in one room, but we were safe. We thought all refugees were treated the same way.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

Soon, Francisco got a job providing housing counsel, and we moved into a transitional home owned by the Faithful Companions of Jesus Sisters. It wasn’t until I began volunteering with the group’s resettlement effort that I understood how different life was for refugees who weren’t government-assisted—like those who arrive at ports of entry, such as Pearson Airport and the Peace Bridge. When they weren’t in shelters, they were living in homes they found themselves and preparing welfare and refugee claims with limited knowledge of English. To help them, in 1991, Francisco, the Sisters and I co-founded the FCJ Refugee Centre out of two bedrooms in the house the Sisters gave us. Today, we serve refugee claimants in four houses across Toronto, helping them navigate the immigration process.&nbsp;

Refugees have always received an inadequate introduction to the country: after they make a claim, Border Services agents interview them, give them the number for the Red Cross’s intake office and basically send them off with a “good luck.” If the Red Cross is closed, people sleep at the airport. If it’s open, they take transit there. If it doesn’t have beds, people sleep in shelters. The problem is, in 2024, shelters don’t have beds either. An explosion in global conflicts—in Ukraine, Yemen, Haiti, the Middle East and Africa—has brought a record number of claimants to Canada. In 2023, for the first time, the number of refugees we admitted exceeded 140,000, and half were processed through ports of entry.&nbsp;

It’s often said that Canada is in the middle of a refugee crisis; I’d argue it’s more of a resource crisis, provoked by the federal government underfunding social housing for decades and not preparing for waves of refugees it should have known were coming. I am now seeing things I have never witnessed in my 34 years of advocacy: I can’t seem to refill the free bread in the FCJ lobby fast enough. I’ve heard of refugees being detained for arriving without proper identification and saying they’d rather stay in detention because their only other option&nbsp; is the street. People are saying, “I’d rather go back to my country and die quickly than die slowly here.” Last year, a refugee from Nigeria died while sleeping outside a shelter in Mississauga, Ontario, waiting for a bed.

To rectify this, in February, the federal government pledged $362 million to the provinces to house refugees. But money alone is not enough. Refugee claimants on temporary permits are ineligible for federal settlement services, which means they rely on provinces, municipalities, non-profits and public generosity from the moment they arrive on Canadian soil. Instead, they should immediately be directed to reception centres, centralized spaces with warm beds, food and wraparound supports to help them begin building their lives.&nbsp;

Right now, a Montreal-based organization called PRAIDA is one example of a government-funded reception centre. There, refugees are permitted stays of just 15 days. Ideally, there would be a reception centre in every major city in the country, as well as border cities like Niagara Falls and Windsor, to assist the thousands of refugees who make claims inland. There is no magic number for how long they should stay. In my experience, individual claimants may need three days before moving on to a shelter or another city, whereas a single mom with two kids might need six months. Centres that offer shorter stays could have capacity for up to 500 people; for longer-term centres, 100 beds is reasonable. The smaller the community, the easier the integration process.

In addition to providing a place to sleep, the centres would have a team of on-site case workers to address the most immediate needs of refugees: legal aid to prepare them for their hearings with the Immigration and Refugee Board, or IRB; an employment counsellor to help them find job opportunities and migrate any skills from their home country; an education worker to set up language classes and schooling for any dependent children; and, most importantly, a housing worker. Many families can’t afford a home or apartment just for themselves and, in Toronto, the wait to get into subsidized housing can be years-long. A housing expert could match them with other people with whom they could split spaces and costs and connect them with reputable landlords in the area.&nbsp;

A reception centre should also have a full-time nurse and physician to address health concerns and provide referrals to family doctors and psychologists for further care. Refugees are often fleeing domestic violence or conflict zones, so many arrive with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. The process of rehashing their past with lawyers and IRB members can open old wounds.&nbsp;

With all the focus on paperwork and hearings, it’s easy to forget that refugees need time for relaxation and hobbies. FCJ offers regular workshops on painting, entrepreneurship and essay-writing—fun and educational sessions to break up the admin work. Our MusicBox program teaches music to kids who aren’t yet enrolled in school; it’s a good way to learn English. We even offer facial-massage workshops for women, which encourage self-care and relaxation—two things that easily fall by the wayside. Reception centres could create these programs, too.

Over the past few months, a coalition of transitional houses from around the GTA helped to create a proposal for the construction of a reception centre in Toronto. Soon, thanks to a recent $7-million federal funding boost, one is set to open close by—in Peel Region, where the Nigerian refugee lost his life. I’m hoping this new centre will prevent further tragedies and be a safe haven for the refugees arriving at Pearson Airport.

Canada, which prides itself on being a rich, multicultural tapestry, doesn’t just have a responsibility to take care of claimants because it signed onto a UN convention. Of the thousands of refugees who arrive every year, roughly 89 per cent will become citizens. It’s important that they feel welcomed from the start. The work I do is my way of thanking Canada for keeping me alive. Whether or not their claim is accepted, a proper reception will help all refugees to remember: I was treated like a human being.&nbsp;

Loly Rico is the founder of the FCJ Refugee Centre in Toronto.

An 11-Year Family Separation

In 2012, I was working as a McDonald’s manager in Tagaytay, a city one hour south of Manila, Philippines. My then-husband, Franco, and I had three kids: a daughter, Kate, and two sons, Jelo and Jade. I was earning $600 a month and always struggling to make ends meet. I constantly thought about how I could give my children a better life.&nbsp;

That year, some of my McDonald’s co-workers moved to Australia to work food-service jobs—and they quadrupled their wages. There are special agencies back home that get Filipinos jobs abroad based on their skills and the demand in those countries. In March, I quit my job and signed up with an agency, who asked if I could take an opening at a Tim Hortons in St. John’s, Newfoundland, where I would earn $2,000 a month. I could qualify for permanent residency there after working for a few years, then sponsor my family to come to Canada. My kids would get a better quality of life, so I decided to move.&nbsp;

Saying goodbye to my children was difficult. We had never been separated before. I told them, “Mommy will come back soon, and I will bring you to Canada.” We all cried, especially Jade, my youngest son. He wouldn’t let go of my hand the day I left.&nbsp;

I arrived in St. John’s with two other Filipinos from the same agency. Our employer picked us up from the airport. They were good to us: they had a house in the city where the three of us would live, and they helped us settle in and sorted out our paperwork. I worked the 4 a.m. to noon shift at Tim Hortons; it was busy and fast-paced, but it was familiar to me after all the years I had been working at McDonald’s.

I soon learned there was a provincial nominee program in Newfoundland that could fast-track my application for permanent residency after I’d worked a year at Tim Hortons. So, in 2013, I applied with Franco and my three kids as dependents. Getting the documentation together was a long and complicated process. I filled out a dozen forms and gathered a pile of paperwork, like police clearances, certified copies of birth certificates and medical checks. My family back home had to travel for hours to different offices to get some of the documents. It was months of work. The process was expensive too—it cost about $2,000 just to apply, plus hundreds more to get all the paperwork from the Philippines.

A year later, my application was denied; it turned out Franco never got a medical exam for Jade. I was devastated. I had spent so much money, time and effort for nothing. I missed my children: we’d Skype most nights at 10 p.m., when my kids were up for the morning and getting ready for school. I’d hang out in the background, chatting with them and watching them do their morning routines before I went to bed. I cried often when we Skyped. It felt like half of my heart was missing. They missed me too. They’d ask, “Mom, when are you coming home?” I’d stay quiet then, because I didn’t have an answer for them.&nbsp;

My journey took a turn in 2014. Franco and I had grown apart, and we broke up. I eventually found love with a regular customer at Tim Hortons, a truck driver named Michael. I moved into Michael’s basement apartment and, a year later, I was pregnant. After our son, Mikaal, was born, the three of us moved into a three-bedroom house in Shea Heights, a hilly neighbourhood in St. John’s.

I applied for permanent residency again in 2016, this time just for myself and my kids. I had already gone through the nominee program once, so I thought it would be simple to continue on that track. We had all our forms, including Jade’s medical check. But my application was rejected again because I forgot to sign one of the forms. That’s how strict they were. There was nothing I could do but move on and apply again.&nbsp;

In 2017, Michael and I had another child—a daughter named Maya. Two years later, I applied for permanent residency for the third time and was denied again. This time, it was because I sent my application payment via certified cheque. That’s how they had requested it the first two times, but by then, the immigration department updated its system to pay for the application online. I didn’t know about the change. Meanwhile, I had to keep renewing my work permit every two years, which cost about $150 each time.

By 2021, I was preparing my fourth application for permanent residency. One of my Filipina friends at Tim Hortons, Hashe, had just become an immigration consultant and decided to take over. She suggested bringing Jade over to Canada under a child study permit while we waited for our permanent residency application to go through. (Jelo and Kate were too old to qualify.)

The paperwork for Jade came through in under a year, and he arrived in St. John’s in February of 2022. The last time I'd seen him, he was only six; when he arrived, he was 15. You see your children grow up on a computer screen, but it’s not the same as seeing them in person. I was half-expecting him to still be a little boy, but when he came out of the gate, I was shocked by how tall he was. My mind went blank and tears started pouring out of my eyes. But I was so happy.

Jade slipped into life in Canada quite easily. He started Grade 9 at a local high school in Shea Heights and made friends quickly. He also got along well with my two Canadian kids. I often find Jade at the computer, teaching Mikaal a new game, and Maya is the little sister he always wanted. They’re always drawing or painting together.&nbsp;

In 2023, after 11 years, my permanent residency application finally came through, and Kate and Jelo arrived in Canada that September. At the airport, I burst into tears and ran toward them. My first thought was, Oh my god, they’re so grown up. My daughter, Kate, was 21 and taller than me. I kept taking videos of them, just because I was so excited to see them. Kate said, “Mom, will you stop that?” It was reassuring to know she was still a typical young person, getting annoyed at her mother.

The transition wasn’t all smooth. In the beginning, Kate and Jelo were pretty quiet when I asked them questions. They were making a big life change too—a new culture, language, food and friends. It took time for us to warm up to each other, but our relationships have improved. And Kate and Jelo have their own lives now. They got jobs at Tim Hortons too and they’re saving up for school. Kate was in the middle of a psychology degree in the Philippines, so she’ll register for university here to finish her program. Jelo is planning to apply for the police academy in Newfoundland. Michael is teaching him how to drive—a requirement for the job. It’s heartwarming to see Michael treat my kids like his own.&nbsp;

The house is pretty full. Kate and Maya are in one bedroom, Jade and Mikaal in the second, me and Michael in the third bedroom and Jelo in the basement. Everyone gets along. I feel thankful that Franco raised them to be good kids while I was away. I love seeing them all playing together. Sometimes Kate does Maya’s hair in the morning, or gives her a bath at night. When we all have time off together, we’ll watch movies at home or go to the mall and eat at the food court. Window shopping at the mall is our hobby and our bonding time.&nbsp;

I got a new job recently, as a food-service worker at a local hospital. The pay is better and the job is less demanding. But I still pick up shifts at Tim Hortons every now and then. I’m trying to save up money to buy a plane ticket home. I haven’t gone back to the Philippines since I left 12 years ago. I miss my mom and she misses me too. I know what it’s like now, to have your kids so far away from home.

A Small But Mighty Miniature Show

Canada is mad for all things micro. Carefully designed homes as small as shoeboxes are selling for thousands of dollars, and you can fill them with inch-wide kitchen pots and loonie-size charcuterie boards. Variations of the hashtag #miniature have amassed more than 830,000 videos on TikTok. The tiny-everything craze has even received the&nbsp;Great British Bake-Off&nbsp;treatment: the third season of CBC Gem’s&nbsp;Best in Miniature&nbsp;premiered in December of 2023.

Minutiae, a new exhibit on display at the Alberta Craft Council in Edmonton, plays on our newfound miniature mania. The gallery of 54 tiny objects forces onlookers to stare—and squint—at everyday items reduced to a fraction of their size and to relish the meticulous handiwork of artists from across the country.

The idea of featuring tiny art came to Alberta Craft Council’s exhibitions coordinator Jill Allan and her colleagues last spring, as they admired a co-worker’s necklace, decorated with a tiny silver chair. “Miniatures lure you in,” says Allan. “They bring a lot of joy that hearkens back to childhood.” In the fall of 2023, the Council put out a call for miniature art projects and received 120 submissions. Among them: a two-inch-high lookout beach tower, a teen’s bedroom reduced to nine cubic inches and minuscule plastic planters hanging in macrame holders. Allan and her team spent much of February and March unwrapping projects in delight.