humanity

Humanity begins at home.

Just One of the Boys.
I grew up with a fairly big family, lots of aunts and uncles. My mother was one of six and my father one of five. When the two of them decided to get married they were blessed with four. My mom tried to stop after two boys, but when she went to have her tubes tied the routine pregnancy test ruined her plans. So, then there were four—my two older brothers, and then me and my twin sister. If it wasn’t hard enough growing up with two older brothers, when my sister and I were four, my parents bought a house on a street with all boys. My sister and I were the only two girls out of the fifteen kids living down Gapway, and she fit in better than I.
By Natalie Stover5 years ago in Families
Unveiled
In a whole life steeped in awkward social moments, how am I to pick just one? From elementary school to high school to college and beyond, being socially graceful has never been my strong suit. Maybe I can settle on a moment that transpired as “social shock.” There are many. So, so many. But the one that shook my world?
By KJ Aartila5 years ago in Families
Off-White Privilege
This story is going to offend you. I’ll tell you that right off the bat. Skin colour is not something you can choose at birth and altering it is a painful and costly process. I was born with Caucasian or white coloured skin to two biological parents with the same predetermined pigmentation. I have medium hair that is brown and round brown eyes. I have average looks an average weight. The only distinctive features on my body art tattoos and a thick hideous scar stretching diagonally across my left eyebrow and forehead. This deformation has been a part of me since I was two years old period the other scars are bigger and uglier, but you cannot see them under my hair. I shaved my head once when I was 14 just to see how people would react, it was not pleasant. This lesson taught me that as long as I keep my ugliness hidden, nobody would see me as different. But I am different. There is something in my genetic code that separates me from over 98% of the world’s population. It is something that cannot be changed by surgery or physically perceptive by anyone, ever. I am talking about my race. I was born a hybrid product of two nearly forgotten indigenous nomadic tribes from the Eurasian continent. The mirror tells me that I’m white my passport tells me I’m Caucasian and my genetics choose to ignore the question entirely. My birthplace was somewhere in the former USSR, it is unclear at exactly which location or time I was born at because my parents were military researchers and I have never seen any legitimate documents supporting my legal identity. The only thing I’m sure about of myself is my race. This is due mainly to a meticulous and well kept archive of family history kept by my mother’s relatives, passed on from generation to generation of the Last of Us. You see, the perestroika and Bolsheviks exterminated almost my entire clan and the gulags or the war claimed the rest period the survivors were forced to flee oppression under false names and passports. Whole villages were left to decay. This is my village, located a 14 hour drive from the nearest inhabited area, absent from any map, niever mentioned in any newspaper. Once alive with the science and smells of hardworking simple folk of the mountains, this little hamlet lies rotting and forgotten somewhere on the edge of the world. We immigrated to Canada in 1998 under questionable documents and settled in Toronto. I went to public school, learned English and even made some friends. Fitting in was easier because I am white. The deeply concerning truth is that I feel that my skin colour really did offer me more privilege in society than others, and I accepted it. Being an invisible minority protected me from blatant outright racism and discrimination. I grew up fully aware of my race and heartbreaking heritage, and it was only when I got married that I started to realize how deeply racism discrimination based on skin colour is embedded even in modern progressive society. My husband is half Belgian and half African tall and handsome, always smiling. It was thanks to him that my eyes open to reality. She told me stomach churning stories about his experiences and open up a world of truth for me. After long deliberation we decided that ending racism does not start with T shirts or armed riots. It starts with our mixed race, curly haired, green eyed children inviting everyone to their birthday parties.
By Toni Jay5 years ago in Families
Father's Day with We're All Stories
Thi is a transcript for the We're All Stories Podcast. The full episode can be heard in all its glory here: https://www.buzzsprout.com/1685008/8721961
By Ravenswing5 years ago in Families
Last Ride on the Screaming Mimi
The quickening clink-clink-clink of the cars making their way up the metal track matched Kevin’s pulse as the top of the giant hill loomed closer.
By Lacy Hall5 years ago in Families
That Time My Best Friend And I Were Killed By Charles Manson
Some people are just beautiful. There’s no debate about it, it’s just a fact. And the rest of us have to drag our disfigured carcasses through life without complaining too much because, hey, them’s the breaks.
By Bev Potter5 years ago in Families
Out of place
I feel that I’m a nice person. Sometimes, too nice. It started at school. I never had many friends. I did have some best friends and my boyfriends’/husband's friends. There were times I felt they didn't like me, and they were just being nice, because of my boyfriend/husband.
By Kelly Vedder5 years ago in Families
A Father by Heart
At a very young age, my mother was pregnant with me. My biological father wanted nothing to do with me as soon as he learned my mother was pregnant. Signing away his rights, moving on with his life, as my mother struggled to get her life started with me and make life better for herself without him; knowing he wants nothing more to do with us. Once my mother finished school, she went into the military, going to boot camp, as my grandparents taught me how to walk, read, and write. Once she returned from boot camp, she moved away from her large family to her first stationed area. It was a new life, a new start for her.
By Julee Bliss5 years ago in Families
Misfit
I was petrified. Frozen and floating lost in the mist. All these feelings all at once. This was the first time I remember recognising how out of place in this world I was. Lost floating in a mist of confusion, of newness, of nothing quite fitting with what I knew or what I expected. Yet I was in a perfectly everyday situation. At least for everyone else.
By Kevin Mitchell5 years ago in Families
Betterment of Life..
What gets me going or what's my passion in life you ask? Well it's an even split, something kind of boring and something kind of interesting I'll let you decide which is which. Also try to keep an open mind that's all I ask.
By Todd Simmons5 years ago in Families
Misplaced Book
Sort of like a library book placed in the wrong section by a stumbling, careless child. So easily taking their chubby fingers to the spine of a book and placing it on a random shelf. I have felt so thrown into life. Sort of like a wild animal forced upon it's land with no choice but to seek salvation on it's on. Only it becomes instinct for them, a way of life if you will. Much more difficult as a conscious human being. Especially someone who finds overthinking to be a hobby and not a fun one at that. I remember even having the strangest birth, what's so strange is that I remember the feeling in the atmosphere at the time of my birth. Another funny thing is that I nearly typed death instead of birth. I guess entering this world had felt like a death of some sort. Due to the dramatics I've been blessed with, I've gone through many cycles of death spiritually, emotionally, and mentally. And to live life, is to live life whilst grabbing the cold hard grip of death and walking with it as you live. It isn't a sad, morbid or melancholic life, but it is a life of truth. Some do say truth brings unhappiness, but unhappiness is usually caused by an unshifted perspective. I was the kid who asked THE questions. I remember asking my mom about something she told me as a toddler when I was merely under ten years old. All I remember is the elevation, frustration and anger in her voice, It was then, when I began to question my effortless inquiries about life and religion, It was then when I felt I had to keep my mouth shut. But that was only the beginning of my inquiries about life, I had always found myself questioning the stories in bible study or the ones told at school. Maybe I was a young skeptic in the making.
By keyandria Miller5 years ago in Families
"Women Should..."
Growing up on Hawai'i from a young age we learn that everyone helps out no matter the gender. This past year as a young woman in the prime of her life. I've realized that many cultures in the world believe in gender roles.
By Amourrro5 years ago in Families